


When Lambs Become Lions

by candyvan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Gen, Manipulation, The Argent Family, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/pseuds/candyvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the knowledge that even when the pain stops, even if they were to let you go, that they've changed you. That pain, that fear, that despair has made you someone else, someone you barely recognize."<br/>- - -<br/>When her world is crumbling down around her, Allison Argent has no one to remind her of kindness and all she is given is cruelty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Lambs Become Lions

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Scott McCall was never bit. Instead, Boyd and Erica wandered into the woods that night, and Peter found and bit both of them. I wanted to explore the fucked up, and also confusing, Argent family dynamic a bit more than I felt canon ever gave us. 
> 
> This fic is also a two parter. This is the past, and part two will be the present. I wanted to write a fic where Allison ran away, changed her name, and fell in love with Lydia with secrets of werewolves and too many lies, but I found that I wanted to tell another story, too, to give the first more depth. And then I sort of became obsessed with this for the better part of a year. Part 2 isn't done yet. I don't know when or if it will be done. I'll add the Lydia/Allison relationship tag to this story then. For now, this is just a gen fic. This is just the story about Allison, and how she had to rely on herself when she had no Scott or Lydia or Stiles. 
> 
> I want to thank all of my friends for supporting me and standing by me while I whined and moaned about this fic, who read every draft and who encouraged me to keep writing when I just wanted to lay down and let this story be forgotten.  
> Calyx, Moo, Kenna, and literally all of my tumblr followers who put up with my complaining about writing tag, and to everyone who I got so excited for this fic only to never ever finish it. I hope someday I can. I love Part A so much. I feel like I really grew as a writer with this, and I'm exciting to keep growing with Part B.
> 
> Feel free to check out the [inspiration](http://majyyxx.tumblr.com/tagged/allydia%20au%20tbh) tag and the [spoilers](http://majyyxx.tumblr.com/tagged/allydia%20au%20spoilers) tag on my blog! 

 

1.

It's when she's seventeen. She's seventeen and her mouth tastes like blood and honey; the phantom press of lips against her own makes her lick at them to wash it away. Her torso still burns from the warmth of the soft hand that rested carefully on her hip, grasping her, pulling her closer, scrambling up her sides to touch the soft material of her bra.

“It's not because of the _'gay'_ thing,” her mother swears, dabbing at the wound on her forehead with a wet cloth and a soft touch. Her eyes are tight and crinkled, mouth a fine, thin line. She works with a mechanical precision, wiping away blood from Allison's skin like she's done this a hundred times before. Allison knows now that she has. “You understand that, right?”

Allison doesn't say anything. She can't think of a single word that won't come out half formed or hysterical, so she stays silent, hands clenched in tight fists on her lap and an anger growing steadily in her chest. She just stares out the kitchen window, watching quietly as her father and three other men dig a hole in their flower bed.

“We were planning to tell you,” Victoria continues, considering the cut. She opens the plastic first aid kit quietly, fingers fluttering over neosporin and antiseptic with soft hums. “Your father and I just wanted you to have a childhood. Your Aunt Kate started hunting when she was ten years old- and your father, well, he was eight.”

“My _father_ just shot my _girlfriend_ in the head with an _arrow_ ,” Allison reminds her, voice blank with shock.

Victoria laughs. It's supposed to be a soothing sound, one Allison has heard a thousand times in her life, but right now it just strikes something terrified in her. She can't help the instinct to squirm away and ignores the dirty look she gets for the action.

“Yes, well-” her mother shrugs. She decides on a cream and squeezes a bit of it onto her fingers. Her nails dig into Allison's chin as she tugs her face toward her, and Allison follows along absently. In her mind, she's seeing Erica's smiling face freeze as an arrow cracks through her skull, blood gushing out of the wound and splattering on Allison's cheek, the feel of the arrowhead sliding against the skin of her forehead as Erica's body falls on top of her. “It's not the best introduction to our family's business, I suppose.”

“You suppose.” Allison repeats, noticing that her mother's green eyes, once so kind and warm, are steely cold and calculating.

“I learned when I woke up to an omega, a survivor from a pack my father killed, breaking into our home to kill my younger brother and myself in revenge.” Victoria says, too calm and detached and it makes Allison shiver. She grabs a needle and string, sighing, “You'll need stitches, I'm afraid. It may scar.”

Allison never finds out how to tell her that it's the least of her worries, that she can hear her father through the kitchen window, digging a grave for the girl who was kissing her only thirty minutes ago, that her body is wrapped in a tarp they use to cover the car in winter, that the girl she was starting to love was actually a _werewolf_.

She's seventeen when Erica is buried in her backyard, body decomposing as purple flowers bloom in spring. Allison plants them once the rumors have died down, once the police have stopped asking questions, once the school takes down the MISSING fliers and Erica Reyes turns into a name people whisper every once in a while.

  


  


2.

“We have a code,” her father says one day, when he finds her leaning over Erica's flower bed.

She's plucking the weeds, hoping that if she pulls out each over growth, her heart will stop clenching in pain every time she looks at it. She wonders if it's morbid in someway, wonders if Erica's body will deteriorate the same way a human body would, wonders if it will someday feel normal to differentiate between werewolf and human.

“I didn't mean to kill her,” Chris admits quietly, when it's clear that Allison isn't going to acknowledge him.

Allison plucks off her gardening gloves, little white things with blue flowers on them, and turns to him. His head blocks out the sun, but she still squints at him, as if hoping he'll see the incredulity of the situation.

“So, what, your finger slipped on your trigger?” Allison asks him innocently, “You forgot to turn your safety on?”

Allison remembers when she was nine and she just got back from her first bow competition, buzzing with excitement to show her mom her shiny new trophy. It had a golden statue of a young girl, holding an arrow poised ready to fly, on top of it. Her name was engraved on it, _Allison Argent_ , it said, _first place_ , and she couldn't wait to put it up in her room.

But then her father came in the kitchen after her, a frown on his face. He held up her compound bow, an eyebrow arched and a reprimand on his tongue.

Allison got her trophy taken away for a month and she never forgot to turn her safety on again.

She wonders if Chris remembers the same lesson as he frowns at her. What lie is he spinning to grant her forgiveness? Allison hasn't been able to handle being around him for too long. Every time she looks at his face, all she can see is the arrow sliding out of Erica's skull and she feels like she wants to puke.

Chris sighs and crouches down next to her, boots squeaking and knees cracking. Allison wonders if her father has always looked as old as he does in this moment.

He reaches into the garden and touches the soil softly, as if he's afraid a body will jump out of it and rip into him. Allison is still too angry at him to ask if it's possible, if Erica can magically come back to life.

“There's a feral alpha running around the town,” he says, voice so small it cracks in the middle. Allison stares at him with wide eyes, unsure if she's afraid of the thought of an out of control monster or infuriated that he's trying to distract her like this, “All of the strange murders, the disappearances- it's a werewolf. We had just found out one of the betas was Reyes. I thought she was mauling you,” Chris admits quietly, “I did what any father would do.”

A bitter taste fills Allison's mouth and her hand tightens on the trowel in her hands. She shakes her head at him, wondering why she finds it so surprising how he's trying to spin this as if Erica's the enemy. Erica, who almost killed the two of them trying to swerve out of the way of a squirrel, would never kill a person. Allison may not know much about this new world of monsters and hunters, but she knows that much. She drops the trowel, listens to it clang against the cobblestones, and glares at him.

“That's not an apology,” she tells him, even though she wouldn't accept one.

Erica's the only person who would be able to accept an apology, and she's _dead_. She'll never drive a car or graduate or get married, all because her father killed her. She's dead. She's dead and Erica's mother brought Allison cookies the other day, tear tracks still painting her face, as she told Allison how happy she made her daughter. She's dead and Allison loved her and her father _killed her_.

She stands, hands in a tight grip at her sides to keep her from lashing out as she smiles mockingly at him, “And she wasn't _mauling_ me. We were having sex.”

Allison can't tell if he flinches at the truth or the malice in her voice.

She doesn't stay around to find out.

  


  


3.

Allison steadily grows to find books appearing in random places throughout her home.

Her parents have always had a large library, almost entire trucks have to be called to haul them all away each time they've moved. There are some she knows she's not allowed to even breathe upon, let alone read, like the ones that are hidden on a long shelf in the basement.

When she was learning to read, she would sneak down there and try to make sense of them, of why she wasn't allowed to touch them, but there were always words too big for her to understand, words like _loup-garou_ and _monkshood_ and _feral_. There were pictures though, pictures and diagrams of animals, weapons and plants.

Allison enjoyed looking at the pictures, thought they were magic and fun, until she found one of a sword slicing through a man's torso, gooey entrails drawn in a surprising amount of detail as they hung mid-air.

She stopped sneaking down to the basement after that.

There's a leather bound book sitting innocently on her bedside table when she wakes up, Argent written in silver on the side. Allison can't tell if it's ironic or not.

The prologue is written in french and she's too tired to read it. She's known french since she was old enough to talk, knows it well enough that she can switch in and out of conversation with it if she wished. Allison always loved the language, the romanticism of it, the way it could roll off her tongue.

Now, Allison hates it, hates what the word french represents, hates her last name and what it means.

Allison wants to be more than a bullet, more than an arrow, more than a _hunter_ , and she leaves the book on her father's desk, hoping he'll take the hint.

It's a week of stumbling over books, in her bathroom, in her purse, on top of her laptop, before Allison finally snaps.

Her parents are sitting in the living room, Chris watching football and Victoria writing in a notebook, a picture perfect parental scene that makes her skin crawl. Two months ago, before this town turned her life upside down, before her dad killed her girlfriend, before she learned that werewolves exist, Allison would have crawled in the space between them, just happy to enjoy their company.

Now, the mere sight of them makes her stomach seize in panic and anger, but it does nothing to stop her from throwing the latest book, a hardcover about skin walkers, on the coffee table. The table makes a loud smack as the book drops down onto it, and Allison wonders vaguely if it cracks from the force of her throw.

Her father's eyebrows are arched as she glares at him and demands, “I don't want anything to do with these!”

Chris' eyebrows rise even further, if possible, and he leans forward carefully, as if she'll strike him if he moves too quickly. The book is just as big in his hands as it was in hers, and a tight frown crosses his features as he reads the title.

He looks back up at her, eyes blue and so familiar that it makes her want to cry. Those eyes were always what she looked to, always what guided her, and now the sight of them makes her want to run.

“I don't know what you're getting at here, Allison,” Chris says, voice neutral and soothing, like she's a cornered animal.

Allison's hands tighten at her sides, aching to throw something, to punch, to kick, to let this anger festering inside of her out somehow.

Instead, she just crosses her arms, narrows her eyes and says, “You've been leaving these books all around my room for the past week. Don't play stupid, okay?” She hates how her voice cracks, hates this feeling of helplessness settling in her gut, “Just... Just please stop.”

There's the sound of paper rustling to her right, and Allison watches in surprise as her mother closes her notebook and sighs. Allison fights the urge to take a step back as he mother stands from the couch, tall and imposing with sharp features and even sharper eyes. She plucks the book out of Chris' hands, flipping the delicate pages between her strong fingers. The pages are a golden yellow, dusty with age. Old books usually have a distinct smell, comforting and warm, but this one smells like something is molding between the spine.

“I left the books for you,” Victoria admits, and Allison's stomach drops to the floor, “Your father had nothing to do with it. We've given you plenty of time to grieve, Allison,” she says, as though it's been years when really it's hardly been a month. “I think it's past time for you to accept who you are and what it is we do.”

Allison's mouth drops as Victoria turns, settling the book down where she was sitting on the couch. Her throat locks up as her mother picks up her notebook and starts pulling things out of it- pictures.

Each one gets slapped on the table with a sick slap that makes her skin break out in goosebumps. Allison's jaw tightens as she shakes her head and clenches her eyes shut, willing the images away, willing for the past few weeks to be nothing but a nightmare.

“Look at them,” Victoria demands when the barrage of images has stopped. Allison just continues shaking her head, eyes clenched to hold back the water building behind her lids. “Look!”

Victoria grips her elbow hard, shakes her into submission and Allison cries out in pain as she's jerked around, eyes flying open and she _looks_. Allison gasps at what she sees, gapes at the blood, pain and terror in each image.

Dead bodies. Slit throats. Ripped open stomachs. Blood. Gore. A burned carcass. Each picture depicts some gruesome scene out of a horror movie, but they're too real to be any Hollywood production. Allison gags at the pictures and turns her head away, tries to run from the death and cruelty sitting on her coffee table like the Sunday newspaper, but Victoria's grip is too tight, too demanding, and Allison is forced to look.  
“This is what we do, Allison,” Victoria tells her, voice harsh and cold with no trace of motherly love, “We stop this from happening. We protect.”

The nails digging crescent moons her into her elbow say differently.

“Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” Victoria says, “We hunt those who hunt us. Allison, we are the _only_ thing standing between these monsters and humanity. Our family has sacrificed generations to keep ignorant humans safe from this!”

Victoria plucks a picture from the pile and forces Allison to take it in her shaking hands, fingers hard and unrelenting as they dwarf her own. The picture is a bus with blood splatter on the windows and claw marks on the seats, something akin to a hand print dragged through the red mess across the windows. She recognizes the bus, knows it's the accident that happened outside of her school. It was so close to her, to her classmates. She didn't even know... She thought it was a mountain lion attack. She thought it was just a wild animal, like the news said.

“How can you turn your back on this? On us? How can you know about these monsters and not want to do something about them?”

A tear runs down her face, landing on the slash marks in the leather with a plop and Allison is still shaking her head, still wanting to cover her ears with her hands and scream until everything is white noise.

Chris clears his throat and Allison looks away from the image, looks to her father who is staring at Victoria like he's never met her before. He shakes his head, turns to Allison and says, “You have knowledge now. You have a responsibility, even if you don't want it.”

Victoria presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, to the still healing wound from the night that Erica died. She can't tell if it's supposed to be a reminder, a silent way of saying that her father was just following the code, or if it's meant as a comforting gesture. Either way, it leaves her stomach twisting.

Chris turns off the TV and they both leave the room, leaving Allison standing in front of the coffee table, hands shaking as she absorbs at the images in front of her.

She doesn't know how long she stays there, but when she goes back up to bed, she takes the book with her.

  


  


4.

Allison's bed is soft. It's still new, a replacement after Victoria decided that burning the other one was the only way to get rid of the evidence of Erica's murder. It's so soft, in fact, that it took Allison a month to get used to sleeping in it. The mattress sucks her in and cocoons her in feathers, and it is her one of her only comfort as of late. It's why when Allison's back feels stiff upon waking, she knows immediately that something is wrong.

Her head is heavy, a twinge in her neck like she slept on it wrong. Her mouth is thick and cottony, and when Allison smacks her lips together, she finds that her mouth is almost as dry as a desert. She groans, throat raw for some reason, and moves to clutch her aching head, only to find her arms are somewhere behind her.

The rope drags against her wrist sharply and Allison hisses, struggling to still herself despite her instant reaction to panic. It comes back to her then, the black bag over her head, the way she screamed and kicked and struggled as men of varying sizes dragged her into a car. She remembers screaming at the top of her lungs like her Aunt Kate told her to do when she was younger, but then something harsh smacked against the back of her head and the world was black.

Allison tries to calm her breathing, but her chest rises and falls sharply and her eyes are starting to water. She shifts, trying to see around the bark of the tree to get a look at her hands, praying they aren't blue, when there's a crinkling in front of her. Allison looks down, seeing a note pinned upside down to her shirt.

“ _The sun sets in five hours,”_ the familiar scrawl reads, _“Our car leaves in six. Good luck.”_

Allison's scream of frustration sends a flock of birds in a tizzy, the flapping of their wings enough to block out her cry as they fly far, far away from her. She watches them go, disappearing behind tall trees, and wishes absently that she could have that level of freedom.

She throws her body back against the bark of the tree, spine thumping and sending a harsh ache throughout her skull and legs, feeling helpless and scared and so, so, so angry that it hurts. A sick feeling, sharp and acidic like betrayal, is pumping through her veins, and Allison wishes her father was here so she could scream at him.

The note rests innocently against her chest, almost taunting her with her father's words.

 _Good luck_ , he had written, and Allison scoffs at it. Most father's would say that about making friends at a new school, or a test in Econ. It's odd for her to see the words here, when they're usually accompanied by something so much more normal, something like studying or learning how to ride a bike.

“Good luck,” he had wished her every day when he dropped her off at school.

Allison clenches her eyes to force the tears away, reminding herself that she has bigger problems to deal with right now.

She looks up, eyes squinting against the bright sun. She follows the trunk of the tree up, watches as it recedes into branches and leaves, narrowing as it goes. She quirks her eyebrows at the possibility forming and rubs a wrist against the bark, hissing as the movement aches deep in her muscles. The bark seems like it could be rough enough, Allison nods to herself, the plan forming easily. It's not a solid idea, but it's the only one she has.

Her feet are bound at the ankles and she struggles to get them under her, shoulders aching and knees screaming as she contorts her body enough to get her feet under her and her butt in the air. Her muscles are stiff, joints even more so, and Allison grinds her teeth against the pain as she pushes herself up, panting with exertion.

The bark rubs raw against her back where her shirt has ridden up, making every movement feel like she's grinding against razor blades. A cry breeches her throat as her muscles twinge painfully, but she forces herself through it, keeps going until she's standing even though her body fights against her every step of the way.

Once she's upright, there's a sheen of sweat on her skin and it looks like Allison has been standing in the rain. She stands there for a bit and allows herself to rest, wishes she could at least stretch out her legs. She imagines, with a sick sort of delight, finding whomever tied her up and punching them until something breaks.

It's easier to breathe when she's standing up, the panic coursing through her veins lessening to something manageable.

The tree is slimmer here, and there's enough give to her arms to move. Every inch of them, from her wrist to her shoulders, burn at the movement, but Allison forces them back and forth over and over again, sawing against the tree in some vain hope it'll be enough to break.

She screams again and again, tears of frustration and pain sticking to her cheeks and sweat running like a river down her body under the hot sun. She kicks against the base of the tree once, twice, grunting out curse words and expletives. She thinks of foxes who get stuck in traps and finally understands why they bite off their limbs to escape.

It feels like years, but the rope finally falls apart with a snap and Allison falls forward and lands flat on her face, arms too dead to even think about catching her. She spits out dirt from her mouth and rolls over, groaning at the suffering of her poor body. She tries to breathe against the pain but there's so much of it, all consuming as it courses through her body.

Allison fights the urge to lay down on the forest floor and nap.

Her arms feel as if they're tied to 500lb weights as she brings them in front of her, pins and needles racing up her hands at the motion. She bites her lip to stifle the scream as blood flows back into her abused limbs, and she wonders how long she was tied up for for it to hurt this badly. Her fingers are awkward and clumsy as she hastily unties the ropes at her wrist, as if she's never used them before. Using her teeth, she pitifully tugs at the knots.

Her wrist, once so pale and unblemished, are red and rubbed raw, dried blood sticking against her skin like maple syrup. There's dirt all around the wounds and Allison hisses at the idea of them being infected.

She remembers Erica pressing a gentle kiss to the skin of her wrist, smiling at her with cherry red lips, and Allison shakes her head until the image goes away. She can't afford to think about Erica right now, not when she's already in enough pain as is.

She lays there for half an hour, moving her wrist and hands and crying out at the sharp jabs of pain. It's like someone's holding her hands down and jamming small knives into them. The pain recedes, finally, and while her hands still look too pale for comfort, Allison decides she can't spend anymore time on them.

She forces herself to sit up, back muscles spasming so painfully that she has to bite her tongue to keep the scream in, and rips the note off of her chest with a ferocity one might reserve for beating someone with a bat. She reads it again, anger growing white hot in her gut, before crumpling it in her hand and throwing it into the thick brush of the forest.

Her dad is the one who will need luck when she gets through with him.

Her fingertips burn as she unties the rope used to bound her ankles, nails catching and breaking painfully on the thick material. It goes smoother than the ones at her wrist, but her fingers are still stiff and awkward, and it takes effort that she doesn't have to get them to cooperate.

Her leg muscles don't hurt as much as her arms do, but they're still stiff and unyielding to her movements. Her ankles ache like she's beaten them against a wall, and she has to rub out a charlie horse in her calf before she's able to stand again.

Allison has to use the tree for support as she forces herself up, head spinning as the pain makes her nauseous.

She hates her father, hates him and his stupid family with every single neuron in her body, feels a frothing anger over the name Argent in her atoms. How is she expected to do this? She doesn't know anything about wilderness survival. She hasn't been camping since she was eight, and even then her mom only took her out hiking once.

But, with her parents, things aren't always as simple as they seem, are they?

She struggles to remember her mother crouching low the ground, gently touching crushed leaves and hoof prints, checking scat and trees and rocks. She remembers, vaguely, her mother telling her that she was tracking, but the rest is a blur. She's been going through her memories often lately, always looking for an ulterior motive. Every smile in her family album feels fake when she looks at it.

Allison struggles to move her feet, panting at the muscles in her legs fighting against her. Her body doesn't care, wants to just flop against the ground and stay there, but the sun isn't as high as it once was and she needs to get out of here now.

A month ago, she would have laughed a the idea of her parents abandoning her in the woods but now, considering that they're the ones who tied her up here, Allison doesn't know what to think.

She checks the ground around her like her mother once did, looking for anything disturbed or different. There are bushes all around her, fallen logs and rocks and Allison gets mental flashes of twisting her ankle on one of them and being lost to the forest forever. She shudders, arms wrapped tight around her frame. She finds a cracked leaf, a few half imprints of shoes, all trailing over the others, and follows them.

Allison keeps her arms tight to her body as she walks, feeling useless with how much they ache. She doesn't want to risk hurting them even more than they already are, and every time she stretches one out to steady herself, a thick bolt of pain leaves her almost crippled.

She doesn't know how long she walks for, she spaces out in between the gentle lull of one foot in front of the other, and by the time she finds a small creak she's stumbling and falling over rocks and twigs. Her entire body feels weak in a way she's never experienced, and she wants to cry but fears she doesn’t have the energy.

The water looks clean and her throat aches like she's been gargling with glass. She almost falls three times while trekking down the small hill to the river, and she doesn't even think twice before laying down in the mud. The water is cold in her cupped hands and feels too good on her parched throat, raw from her screaming earlier. A little bit dribbles down her chin, to the sun soaked part of her neck, and she almost groans at the relief.

When she's finished, the sun is far closer to the tree line than it was a second ago. Worry coils thick in Allison's gut, but she pushes it away, refusing to think about the possibility of being left in the woods overnight.

Allison pushes herself up, bones cracking and muscles laced with venom, and tries to find the trail again. Allison didn't notice before in her stupor, but the forest is thinner here, underbrush giving way to hiking trails and picnic tables. Allison thinks she _has_ to be close. If she can't find her parents, then there has to at least be other families she can ask for help, or maybe even a park ranger. She considers the idea of them taking her to the hospital, of CPS taking her away from her family, and hates herself for the smile that graces her face.

She briefly looks up at the trees and sun, considering the idea of running, but her legs are jello and the mere idea makes her want to lay down and sink into the earth, save her parents the trouble of a casket. She hears voices in the distance and speeds up, hands wrapped around her stomach and nursing a cramp.

Twigs and leaves poke and scrape against her as Allison fights her way through them, following the sound of voices and cars. She imagines a happy family sharing a picnic. Maybe the mother will fawn over her abused wrist and hold her in comfort while they drive her to the hospital. Maybe she'll feel safe for the first time in weeks. Maybe she'll be happy.

Her father is the first face she sees, slamming reality back into her like a punch. He smiles at her like she's just won a golden medal, and Allison sees red.

It's that look, that smile that cheered her on to victory, that face that would read her books before bed, that pours life back into her body and she screams as she throws herself at him, hand coiled into a fist without even thinking about it. She punches him, the bones in her hand sending a sharp pain up her entire arm at the motion, but Allison's used to the pain at this point, and when his head flops into the dirt of the forest floor, something inside of her feels warm and bright. When he brings a hand up to nurse his bleeding nose, she laughs inanely at the sight and doesn't even fight as someone pulls her off of her father.

Someone else joins her laughter, a sound that's familiar and yet not, and there's clapping. A streak of curled blond hair flaps in front of her face and, for a second, Allison's heart seizes, but then Kate's face is in front of her, grinning that smile she always grins, and she's being pulled into the warm chest of her aunt.

“I knew you could do it, kiddo!” Kate says in her ear, and the men around their camp fire cheer for her.

“I-” she gapes, “What?”

“Surprise!” Kate smiles again, her teeth too white and her lips too red, “Victoria called me last week and I got here as soon as I could! This was my idea, so don't hit your father again, please, as amusing as it is.”

Chris gets up from the ground, one hand cradling his face, mumbling nasally, “I told you this was a bad idea. We should have stuck with the chair.”

Allison is silent as Kate laughs again, “It was brilliant! She's brilliant! It took me three hours to just untie myself from a measly chair but wow! Can you believe this girl? Five hours, on the dot. Sweetie, you're on fire!”

“I-” Allison says again, lamely, trying to get all the information in her head sorted so it makes sense.

Chris gives Kate a hard look before he heads back to the SUV, looting around for a first aid kit. Kate just grins at her again, just keeps grinning at her until Allison feels sick. When Kate notices that Allison isn't as happy as she is, her smile falters.

“Hey,” Kate grips her shoulder, turning her away from the camp, “You okay, kiddo? I know it was a shock for you, but I told your folks you could handle it. You _can_ handle this, right?”

There's a look in Kate's eye, something crazed and frenzied and it makes Allison nod, makes her swallow the lump in her throat and gives Kate a weak smile.

Kate's grin comes back in full force, “There you go, girlie. God, that was amazing! Now, listen up, because this is your first lesson of hunter training, got it kid?”

Allison nods shakily, eyes watering.

Kate pulls her back in for a hug and whispers in her ear, like it's a secret, “Our sons are raised to be soldiers, and our daughters? They're _leaders_. Your grandfather and I are going to make sure you're the best leader the Argent clan has ever had, especially after that little slip up with the Reyes girl.”

  


  


5.

The first time Allison meets Gerard, he grips her shoulders hard and does nothing but stare, deadly silent, into her eyes.

It's only a few weeks after the police decide to give up on finding Erica and say that she's either dead or lost to the Reyes' forever. Erica's parents hold a memorial for her at their home and half of the school shows up, jam packed into Erica's tiny sized house.

Allison spent two hours unsure if she should be looking for Boyd, a boy Erica loved like a brother and who tolerated Allison's existence, or hiding from him. He hasn't been to school since the night Erica was killed, and Allison stays up late some nights, turning the possibility over in her head- as if he could possibly _know_ something. If she sees him around town, Boyd is quick to walk in the other direction.

She's afraid for the first time in months about something other than her family, and as refreshing as it is it's also horrifying. Could Boyd possibly know? And, if he does, why hasn't he gone to the police yet? Why is he hiding out and avoiding the very air Allison breathes as if it's toxic?

She very carefully does not consider another possibility, one that chills her to the bone.

All of their teachers don't know where he's gone and say that his phone just rings and rings whenever they call. She tried, once, to bring his homework by, to possibly talk about Erica and allow herself to cry in a place where her mother wouldn't tsk over, but his home was always quiet and dark. If it weren't for the car in the driveway and the obnoxious lawn furnishings still in place, Allison would be sure the Boyd family mysteriously moved away.

But Boyd wasn't even at Erica's memorial, which is alarming for more reason's than Allison can count. Boyd loved Erica. They were thick as thieves and could practically read each other's minds. They'd been friends since second grade, and for the months Allison was dating Erica, people often assumed she was dating Boyd as well.

It makes it easier to handle though, and Allison spends the memorial hiding from Mrs. Reyes' teary eyes in the bathroom, crying into toilet paper.

She couldn't even bring herself to go near Erica's room, where a group of girls were reciting poetry in remembrance, something that Erica would have scoffed at. Allison avoided the room like the plague, not wanting to see the desk where they studied Chemistry, or the TV where they watched movies and cried and laughed, or even the bed where they first kissed.

When she got home, she fully intended to continue her crying fit in her room, but her grandfather had to ruin it. Kate called for him as soon as they got back from that day woods, when they tied Allison up and waited for her to escape, brimming with excitement and buzzing on adrenaline. She says he'll be able to make Allison into a better hunter than Kate herself, ignoring Allison's lack of enthusiasm at the prospect.

Gerard pulls up in her drive way with his merry band of assault rifles and hunters almost as soon as Allison gets out of her car, like he timed his entrance perfectly just to unnerve her. He makes a beeline straight for her, face harsh with wrinkles and blue eyes small and mean.

If anyone asked her how long they stood there, just quietly assessing each other, gauging each other, like they could find their every thought and motive written on their faces, Allison would never be able to answer, all she remembers is Gerard releasing her shoulders, arms stiff as he sighed, like Allison was his biggest disappointment.

“He'll be different once you've gotten farther in your training,” Victoria tells her, shaking her head as Gerard walks into their home like it was his, like everything in the Argent name was his for the taking, including their lives. “It'll take him a few days to get over the situation, sweetheart.”

Allison's throat clenches again, keeping her from telling her mother, again, that she doesn't want to train to be a hunter, and she sure as hell doesn’t want Gerard playing grandfather with her. If anyone needs to get over the “situation”, it's Allison, and she has no intention of letting go of the girl she loves anytime soon.

Except Gerard isn't different after she starts her training.

If anything, he's harder. He's meaner and more deadly, and there are parts of him that Allison sees that just remind her of anger and pain and hate and it keeps her up at night, wondering how someone that cruel can live in a world like this. She can't sleep knowing Gerard is down the hall, can't breathe the same air as him without feeling sick to her stomach, can't sit at the breakfast table with him and ask to pass the butter.

“You're weak,” he tells her one night, voice calm as if it's a fact, when he finds her sitting on the roof.

Allison just shakes her head, lips cracked and dry from biting them so much. She was raised to always speak her mind, to never be afraid of telling anyone off, to never let someone disrespect her, but Allison has bit her tongue so much since Gerard moved in that she's surprised it hasn't fallen off at this point.

Gerard sighs again, a tired old sigh, “I'm not as young as I used to be, Allison dear, but don't think that I won't be able to crawl onto that rooftop and drag you back into this house.”

“What do you want from me?” She asks him, voice cracking. Her eyes water and her muscles burn, legs stiff and shoulders aching. All she's done is train and practice and fight for the past few weeks. She is so tired of fighting, so tired of what her life has become.

Allison longs for the calming touch of Erica, for her sweet smile and gorgeous laugh.

“I want you to be the leader I know you can be,” Gerard tells her, voice firm and bordering on dangerous, “I want you to be good enough to take over the Argent clan when your time comes. You've betrayed us already, and that, I cannot forgive, but I can look past your discrepancy if you rise to the Argent name.”

There's a look in his eyes, daring her to defy him, daring her to jump off of the roof and run until there's only acid in her veins. She eyes the ground below her, knowing with everything in her she can make the jump. She can run and run and never look back.

“Go on,” he says simply, “Be the traitor you've proven yourself to be. Just know, Allison, that if you leave this family, the Argent's will not stop until you are in the ground with your _beloved_.”

He twists the word like a knife and Allison clenches her eyes shut, imagines his neck bloody and her hands just as red. She could do it. She's been trained. And then she could run, and that's all her life would become. Running and running until they find her and make due on Gerard's promise.

She could do it.

Instead, she crawls back into her room, wishing more than anything that Erica could live again, and Gerard could be the one rotting in the ground.

  


  


6.

The duffle bag startles her as Kate throws it to the ground, metal clanging loudly as it plops on the basement floor. Allison looks up for the first time in hours, into the bright blue eyes of her aunt, stomping down on the instinct to panic rising inside of her.

Kate smiles big at her, as if she can't see sweat gathering at Allison's brow and grabs one of the plants from the table.

“Mmm,” she groans, the leaves tickling at her nose. “My favorite scent. It's really too bad these things can be so toxic, they smell beautiful.”

“Must be from over exposure,” Allison mumbles, setting down her grinder and leaning away from the table. Her arms hurt from grinding the different strands of wolfsbane and stuffing them into shotgun shells for the past few hours. Allison zoned out, let her body fall into an automatic trance for the task, desperate to escape for just a little while. Escape isn't a privilege she's gained as of late. Privacy isn't something she has anymore. Eyes watch her every move, constantly judging her every breath for sign of weakness or betrayal or both. “It smells awful to me.”

Kate takes another deep inhale and leans across the counter, sprawling across the surface.

“What are you doing?” Allison asks, voice sharp as she watches her aunt pocket three shotgun shells full of freshly ground wolfsbane. “I have to make a hundred of these before Gerard will let me leave the garage.”

“He has you doing grunt work?” Kate asks, amused. “Relax, kiddo. I wasted some bullets my last trip out on a few jump scares. I like to have a certain number with me at all times.”

Allison doesn't necessarily believe her aunt. Kate took her out on a hunting party a few days ago, and though she had to stay in the back with two men guarding her at all times and her gun only had three bullets in the magazine, it was horrifying. The point is, she's seen Kate hunt and knows her aunt would never waste a bullet- unless she was making a point.

“ _Come out and I'll make it quick!”_ Kate had promised the omega, firing a shot into the air for emphasis. Kate did not make it quick and Allison shudders, remembering the black goo coming from every orifice of the too human looking supernatural.

“A good leader knows their organization from the bottom up,” Allison quotes her grandfather. Her voice is low and mocking, and it makes Kate laugh in a way Allison hasn't heard in what feels like years. It unnerves her and she shifts away slightly. Kate doesn't acknowledge it. “I think it's just an excuse to keep me out of the way. I swear, if there was another matriarch lined up, he would black bag me.”

Kate does it again. She laughs, low and happy and Allison swears she's doing it on purpose. Unnerving her. Watching her squirm. “Someone's been watching too many spy movies.”

“Hard not to draw parallels,” Allison drawls, gesturing to the room. The walls are lined with weapons of all kinds and the floor is covered with padded mats, still warm from the sparring session that took place only hours ago.

“Our family does invest an awful lot in leather, but I think we give off a more mafia vibe, don't you agree?” Kate grins, cheeky. She shakes her head quickly though, suddenly serious. “Your grandfather loves you, you know that, right? He- _We_ just want what's best for you.”

Allison doesn't have the words to explain how afraid she feels anytime Gerard so much as looks at her, the way her stomach feels full of rocks and her mind suddenly sees everything sharper, more clearer. How she looks for exit points and keeps her back to the wall, always placing herself near doorways and butter knives.

“If you're the matriarch, then why is Gerard in charge of training me?” Allison finds herself asking. There are two strong women in her life, both young and with strong ties to her. Allison learned quickly that while Kate is in charge, she's finicky at best, always preferring to play with guns than make plans.

That responsibility usually falls on Victoria, but Allison has rarely seen her mother lately. More often than not, it's Gerard who cracks open her skull to pour his rhetoric inside of it, who questions her, who dictates her schedule. Kate is usually just along for the ride.

Ever since Kate and Gerard arrived, Allison's mom has decidedly taken a step back. Allison finds no books laying around, no cryptic codes or files thrown in her direction, and it would be peaceful if Kate and Gerard weren't always on her. While her mother had been passive aggressive of Allison's training, her aunt and grandfather are her polar opposite.

Last week, Kate woke Allison up with a growl emitter and clicked her tongue in disappointment when, instead of grabbing immediately for her gun like she should have, she just fell off the bed with a shocked cry.

Allison now carefully sleeps with a knife curved under her pillow, always half awake and waiting for threats.

“He's not in charge,” Kate says, voice light like she's poking at a bomb. “I am, and I like to think I've taught you a few things in the past few weeks, but I'm not the one in this family with the most experience and I'm not stupid. Your grandfather has been on thousands of hunts and he has done what most hunters deem impossible- living long enough to cash out his retirement checks. I like to think if I'm not the smartest person in the room, I'm smart enough to know who is. So, yes, I entrusted Gerard to your training just as he trained me, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to be your teacher, Allison.”

Kate's eyes brighten as she sees something out of the corner of her eye. She reaches toward it, and when she pulls her arm back Allison sees a bright red lighter in her hands.

“In fact,” Kate says, “Let's have a quick lesson right now.”

Allison swallows thickly, watches as her aunt looks at the lighter like it's an old friend. “Kate, I have to get this done-”

“I said now, Allison,” Kate's face is tight, and Allison regrets opening her mouth at all. “Stand in front of me. Do you have anything to write on?”

Allison has a clipboard at her work station, tallie marks her only score of her work for today. She rips the paper in half, careful not to damage her neat row of lines and holds it and the pen in front of Kate.

Kate takes the pen from her and tosses it over her shoulder.

“I asked if you had anything to write _on_ , not _with_ ,” Kate reprimands, tongue sharp, “Follow instructions clearly and simply. Don't deviate.”

Allison bites her lip to keep from telling her aunt just how stupid that is, even if she can understand the logic behind it in the grand scheme of things. She just wants to get back to work, to finish her mindless chore and go to bed. She stands straight in front of her aunt, shoulders rigid and jaw stiff to keep her frustration inside of her.

Kate grins, pleased. “Hold up the paper in front of me.”

Allison does, hesitating only slightly. She raises an eyebrow at her aunt, expect of some new order, another mindless task for her to complete. Maybe if she just follows along, then Kate will leave her alone.

Kate tosses the lighter at her and Allison catches it, blindly. Her mind runs but she refuses to chase it, stands there staring at her aunt and waiting, hoping she's not asking her what she thinks she is.

Her aunts voice is completely serene as she says, “Set the paper on fire. Hold it.”

Allison hesitates, waiting for more directions, but Kate just keeps staring at her expectantly, not giving anything away, as if this is a test that Allison didn’t study for.

“I'm not doing that-”

“Now, Allison.” Kate demands. She crosses her legs and tilts her head, curious, as if she's trying to figure something out. “How can you kill a werewolf if you're afraid of a little fire? How can you be an Argent if you're not willing to follow a simple task? I have five men in the hallway who wouldn't even breathe before doing as I say.”

 _Maybe that's a problem_ , Allison wants to comment, but she bites her tongue. She takes a deep breath, exhaling as if her soul can seep from her body and into the atmosphere. She has to flick the lighter twice before it'll light, hands shaking and jostling out the flame, and when the fire is in front of her, her heart pounds like a racing horse in her chest.

She sets the farthest edge on fire and watches as it greedily consumes the paper, grows and glows like a forest fire in the darkness of the room. The paper burns like embers before it's replaced with fire, and the smell makes her feel sick and scared and she's torn between holding the paper tighter and blowing it out.

Allison looks up at Kate, asks her what to do, but Kate looks lost in the flames, stares at the light like a moth. Her smile melts into a smirk and Allison's heart jumps to her throat at the sight of it.

Her breath is coming more erratically even as she tries to control it, but she can't stop because the fire is big and it just keeps growing and growing. It's in her hand and it's going to _burn_ her.

She drops it on instinct as soon as the heat licks at her fingers, when the fire threatens to eat her up. She stomps in it with the heel of her boot, grunting and coughing on the black smoke.

Kate's tsking as she scrambles away, chest heaving for fresh air.

“What'd I say, Allie?” Kate asks, and she's smiling but her voice is more annoyed than amused. “I gave pretty clear instructions if I have to say so myself.”

“Are you _insane_?” Allison demands, stomach rolling in her abdomen. Sweat beads down the back of her neck and she feels too hot, too big in her skin. “It was going to burn me!”

Kate shakes her head, like Allison is being dramatic. “When you're able to remain calm in the face of something you can't control, keep a clear head and not freak out,” Kate pauses, sucking in air between her teeth. “That's when you know you're a real leader, Allison.”

“I didn't know being a leader meant turning myself into burning man,” Allison snarls, stomping back to her seat and throwing herself into her chair. “You change your mind every two seconds. First you want me to be a good listener and now you want me to be good leader? Maybe you should spend more time working on your lesson plans.”

Kate leans closer to her, presses the aconite leaf against Allison's cheek even though she jerks back from it.

“That's the point, Allison,” Kate bats at her nose with the leaf. Allison slaps it away. “Being a good leader is knowing when to give up control.”

Allison almost asks if Gerard taught her that but stops herself at the last second, the burn of the flame still to clear in her mind. She wonders when her aunt changed from her sister into this terrible person, wonders what was wrong with her that she couldn't see it before.

She looks at the burnt scrap of paper on the floor, now blackened and curdled. It doesn't even look like the sheet of paper anymore. Does Kate want to do that to her? Set her on fire and mold something new out of the destruction?

Kate shakes her head at her, disappointed, and hops off the table. She steps out of the garage with her ponytail swaying happily behind her, as if she didn't just try to set Allison on fire.

  


  


7.

There's a map of Beacon Hills on the table, divided into little neat boxes in red ink. Kate is leaning over it, marker propped in hand, smiling down at the map like it's whispering sweet nothings to her.

Allison feels sick.

They've been down here since noon, talking about nothing but the alpha and the betas. Erica's name has been thrown around so much that Allison doesn't even feel a spark of pain at it anymore, just a constant, consuming ache.

A man clapped her father on the back, congratulating him for 'bagging the beast' and Allison had to look away and bite her hand to keep from crying out.

The story of Allison and Erica, the real one, anyway, hasn't been spread to the lower ranks. Only the immediate family was told, but Allison knows how loose lips can get, and she's seen a few of the boys, because that's what they are, mere children in black leather, stare at her with squinted eyes while whispering behind cupped hands.

Gerard stands a little behind Kate, a hand resting on her shoulder and a hard look in his eye.

Things between her and her grandfather have been... strained since the night on the roof. He's always hovering around her, but never directly speaking to her. He drives her to school and watches until she's inside. Sometimes, she can feel someone staring at her in the halls, and when she turns around she sees a low rank boy trailing after her with narrowed eyes. She sees the same boy whispering quietly in Gerard's ear before dinner.

Allison's taken to spending lunch in the girls bathroom.

A man, big, old, and burly with a black beard and a mullet, hands Allison another empty clip and she dutifully fills it with bullets, the smooth pellets sliding through her fingers with an ease developed over time. She has spent the past three days crushing wolfsbane and preparing bullets, and now Gerard has given her mindless task of loading magazines.\\.

She's not stupid. It's just more grunt work to keep her in the basement and out of the way.

The man shoves another clip in her hand as Gerard nods, “Yes, dear, I think that will do. Everyone,” he calls to the room, and all the chatter stops immediately. Allison's hands still, bullets clinking in her grip, “Gather around.”

Her helper gives her a hand to help her to her feet, and Allison tries to smile politely at him but her stomach is clenched in worry with nerves and all she can manage is a face twitch. Her father finds her and drags her next to him, near Kate and Gerard, and Allison has to fight to keep her face blank and neutral.

“Due to some of the evidence we've gathered,” Gerard starts, voice booming around the room with a level of authority that makes Allison look to the map to keep from shaking, “We're able to determine that the alpha running amok is none other than Peter Hale.”

Chris' eyes jump to Kate and Gerard with shock and alarm, and Allison just raises her eyebrows as low murmurs are traded amongst the room.

Kate opens a drawer and pulls out a file, slamming it open on an unmarked section of the map. She grabs a picture of a young man with gelled hair and a clean face, frowning at it. Kate lifts it and shows it around the room, “As you all know, Laura Hale has always blamed us for what happened to her pack.”

Kate's mouth twitches into a smirk as someone in the back cries out, “Rangy bitch!”

There are more derogatory remarks made about Laura Hale, a few that make Allison shudder at the alarming amount of cruelty in the room, before Kate puts her finger to her lip in a sign of silence.

“Peter Hale, her uncle, was one of the only three known survivors of the fire. He's been kept in the Beacon Hills long term care facility for the past six years, but according to Lewis and Howard,” she nods in the direction of two men, standing side by side, in the back. “Who have been staking out the hospital for the past two weeks, we can confirm that a shape has been leaving Hale's hospital room nightly.”

Gerard reaches into the file and pulls out two pictures, one of a dark wolf, and another- a creature from horror stories -a misshapen wolf that looks more like a gorilla than anything, with evil red eyes and snarling fangs.

“As we all know, these beast can only shift between two forms. One, is their human form, where they look as human as us, and the other, we call their beta form, where they are distinctly bestial.” Gerard settles the two pictures on the table and continues, “Kate has some inside information from her time spent monitoring the Hale pack. Every single Alpha in the Hale line has been able to transform into a full wolf shape.”

Another picture drops onto the table- a girl with her body torn in half, blood entrails escaping her cut apart stomach. Allison gags into her hand, the only reaction in a room of stoic faces.

“Laura Hale's body was found on the preserve a few days ago by three of our men. I know what you're thinking- it looks like one of our kills, but rest assured it isn't.” Kate holds up the picture of a shifted Peter Hale, “We have reason to believe Hale killed his own niece to frame us, possibly to bring his new betas to his side.”

“What about the other Hale?” Chris asks, eyes sad as he looks at the picture of Laura. “Derek, right? Was he in town with his sister? He might be sided with Peter.”

Kate grins, small and secretive, “No, there haven't been any sightings of Derek Hale. I doubt he'd come back here after everything.”

Chris opens his mouth again but Kate is quick to cut him off.

She taps on the picture of the normal looking wolf, “The Hale line is strong, and Peter won't go down without a fight. Especially if his last beta is going to be working with him.”

Chris tries to grab Allison's hand, tries to squeeze it in some manner that should be comforting, but Allison jerks away from him, sending him a look that makes him take a step back and frown.

Gerard looks at Allison for the first time that night, something like laughter etched across his face, as he says, “Chris exterminated the first beta, as we all know,” her grandfather smiles wickedly as Allison's shoulders cave in at the word, saying 'exterminated' like Erica was nothing more than an animal, something wild and rabid that needed to be put down. She feels like she's going to hurl. “The second beta has been harder to track down, but, as we all know, every beast leaves its tracks.”

Kate smiles at Gerard and says, “The second beta has been seen nowhere near the alpha, so he's been difficult to find. We're running on the assumption that he was turned against his will, which makes him all the more dangerous.”

Allison's heart flat lines in her chest as her aunt pulls out another picture from the file. Time seems to stop as she sees the familiar face of Boyd, a candid shot resting ever so innocently against the other pictures.

It's like water rushing in her ears, her heart beating to the tune, _I didn't know, I didn't know, how could I not know, why didn't I know_ , and she sways on unsteady feet.

Chris steps in front of her as if to shield her from the group as Gerard cuts in, “A wolf can never resist the call of their alpha, even if they haven't accepted them consciously as such. This one will be vulnerable and weak, especially after the death of his pack mate. The instinct runs deep, and newly turned wolves rely entirely on it.”

Allison jerks back at the mention, as if she's been slapped, and it takes everything in her, some deep seeded chamber of courage she never knew she had, to stand still and straight instead of running up to her room and screaming. Her hands are trembling, even as she curls them into fist.

Kate picks up her marker again, “If we go after the alpha, we have to account for the beta. He's young, so he should be easy to kill. I'm sending a squad of two-”

“No,” it slips from her mouth as easy as breathing, voice cold like a whisper and airy.

The entire room seems to freeze at the word, shuffling awkwardly away from the table. Kate's face snaps to hers, eyes wide and searching, mouth a fine, thin line. She can't see her father's expression, too busy looking at Gerard and his tight face, at the tension written into his shoulders.

“No.” She says again, firmer this time. People look between her Kate, the current matriarch and the next, but it's not Kate that Allison is looking at. “Boyd is seventeen and he hasn't done anything wrong. He was bitten _against his will._ ” She turns to her father, ignoring the shock on his face and demanding viciously, “You told me there was a code. Boyd hasn't broken it.”

Her father's face looks ashen, staring between Allison and the picture on the table as if he's in physical pain. Gerard takes a step closer to her, smiling warmly at her with a bit of teeth showing, almost snarling behind his mask.

“This boy may not have broken the code yet, but he's newly turned and without an alpha to teach him and keep him under control, there is a superb chance he might. Do you want to take that risk, dear? Do you want to risk a human life just to save this animal?” Gerard asks her, voice kind and patient.

Allison's face doesn't change, she still stares at him defiantly and it makes his eyes narrow.

“You're weak,” Gerard tells her again. It's his favorite phrase, and Allison has heard it so much that she can practically hear it whispered into her ear while she sleeps.

“Valuing life does not make me weak!” She yells at him, glare sharp and hands clenched. The room is quiet, people staring between her and Gerard like they're both bombs and one might explode at any second. “Wanting a seventeen year old boy to live doesn't mean that I'm not as strong as you!”

“But,” Gerard shakes his finger, chuckling, “It does, Allison dear. He's not even a human-”

Allison takes a step closer to him, chest almost touching as she looks up into his eyes. There's something dark in her, something like rage twisting through her rib cage, and it makes her unafraid of this man, this monster, who's so drastically ruined her life. “I don't care what his _genetic classification_ is. It's Boyd! Vernon Boyd, and he's real, and he's living, and you don't get to decide if he should die just because you don't like what he turns into at night!”

Erica died because Allison was ignorant. Erica died because Allison couldn't protect her, and Allison will be damned if she doesn't do everything in her power to keep Boyd from suffering the same fate.

They stand there, staring, deadly silent, into each others eyes. Allison counts each little wrinkle framing his hard glare, wanting nothing more than to drive an arrow into his heart.

It feels like hours before her father finally clears his throat.

“ _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_ ,” Chris says, the words flowing from his tongue, “We do this by the code. Allison's right, the boy is innocent. No one kills Boyd unless he makes the first attack, understood?”

Kate stares at Allison with an unreadable look before deflating. She turns to Gerard, “As much as I disagree with it, Chris does have a point.”

With both of his children in agreement, Gerard is unable to advocate for the needless murder of Boyd anymore, but manages to convince them that if Boyd shows up, it would already be too late for him to resist the call of the alpha.

Kate makes a contingency plan, just in case.

A squad of two is prepared to keep a look out for the second beta and chase if he shows up.

Allison keeps tight lipped and silent, only her father aware of the tremors in her shoulders and the rapid expanding of her lungs. Living with Gerard for so long has taught her many things, but the most important is wearing her face like a mask.

Chris looks back at her and his eyes are narrowed, like he knows exactly what Allison is thinking.

  


  


8.

The first time Allison met Boyd, she was standing by the doors the cafeteria, bagged lunch in her hands, eyes wide and uncertain as she looked around the room for a familiar face. She didn't want to be the new girl who sat in the bathroom stall and ate her lunch, had already been that too many times to count, and had been friendly enough to a few people in one of her classes earlier.

Erica, the girl in two of her classes with blonde hair so thick and curly that it looked like an elegant lions mane, smiled at her with bright, shiny teeth. They'd sat together in Chemistry; the girl had shared her book with her and helped her get caught up with where they were in the chapter.

“Hey!” Erica had said, laughing with her red lips pulled back, blue eyes bright and happy as she wrapped her hands around Allison's like they did it all the time, like it was as easy as breathing. Allison raised her eyebrow at it, at the butterflies in her stomach at the simple gesture. “You seem kinda lost. Sit with us?”

It was more of a statement than a question, but Allison nodded mutely and let Erica lead her to their table in the back. Kids whispered as they walked by, eyeing Allison with looks of envy as Erica's heels clicked and clacked in the near silent room. It was in that moment that Allison noticed just how tight of a skirt Erica was wearing, the leather sliding around her thighs like silk in a way that made Allison blush.

Erica looked back and gave her a wicked grin, like she could tell exactly what the entire room, Allison included, was thinking.

Boyd was about the complete opposite of Erica. She was loud and bold, while he was quiet and withdrawn. Erica was snarky and smirky and Boyd was dry wit and a rare grin. They were the strangest of combinations, but somehow had made sense.

Sometimes, Boyd would look at Allison like he wasn't sure of her, like he didn't understand her existence, but then Erica would lean into her space, her sweet perfume would cloud her senses, her hand would rest on her thigh or around her waist, and Boyd would look away.

Now, with Boyd on the ground in front of her, Allison can't help but wonder if Boyd knew before she did, if Boyd and Erica knew about her family, knew what the Argents did when the moon came up.

She wonders if he warned Erica away from her, why Erica would bother with her if she knew exactly what kind of mess Allison was. She even wonders just how much Erica loved her, how she was willing to risk her life just for a few minutes with Allison.

And she's never felt her heart break more.

“Did you hate me?” Allison asks him carefully, arrow poised and string taught. There's a bullet hole bleeding sluggishly from his thigh, another pounded into his shoulder, but Allison is relieved to say that neither are from her. Her arrow is drawn precautionary, but she can't tell if it's to protect herself from Boyd or her family. Blood is seeping from his wounds, and all Allison can see is Erica leaning into Boyd, hugging him close to her as she smiled. “Every day at lunch? Did you?”

Boyd just snarls, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. Allison doesn't expect anything else from Boyd, from the boy she thought was her friend.

His eyes, once so brown and big, are golden and lined with pain and agony. His teeth are sharp and jutted, sticking out from his lips defiantly even as she has him on the ground.

Allison never got the chance to see Erica transformed, but she can picture it plain as day as she looks down at Boyd, and she can't help but think Erica would look absolutely breath taking with eyes as golden as his.

“Boyd,” she begs, and the rumbling stops at the sound of his name, “I loved her. I _love_ her. You know that, right? You **have** to know that.”

Boyd doesn't reply, doesn't waiver from his stare. He's always had big eyes, Allison notes.

When her aunt told her that Boyd was the second beta, that tonight they would be _hunting_ him, Allison didn't know what to think. She wasn't allowed to think, not anymore. Allison couldn't think with Gerard whispering in her ear, with her mother's stern stare, with Kate's sly smile, with her father's sad eyes.

Thinking isn't something her body allowed her to do, not when she got a reprieve from building her muscle, not when she got sent to her room after a lecture on hunting, not when she finally finished cleaning and polishing every single gun in her family home. She just knew, deep in her gut, it wasn't right, that Boyd was innocent, and she stood up for him without even questioning it.

But now, with Boyd here, with an arrow pointed at his chest and the sound of engines in the background, she has a chance to think.

She thinks about Erica's hair and how it felt when her fingers combed through it, she thinks about Erica's hands and how they felt between her own, she thinks of Erica's laugh, just as loud and raucous as her. She thinks of the girl who loved her so deeply despite her blood tainted name. She thinks of how she will never get to repay Erica for the kindness of looking past her family, will never get to kiss her as long and as deeply as she deserves. She'll never know how much she loves her.

“I didn't know,” Allison cries to Boyd's blank face. She doesn't know if she's asking for his forgiveness or Erica's in this moment. Her hands shake, bow jostling, “If I had- I would have protected her- you. I could have saved you both! I could have saved _her_!”

Boyd doesn't even blink in the face of her grief. There's a noise, sharp like a gun, a loud cry of victory behind her, and a full body shudder seems to seep through Boyd's frame. There's a loud, anguish filled howl, one that rocks her to her very core, and then the forest is silent.

Not even the crickets dare chirp. The leaves in the trees hold their breath, forget to rustle in the wind. The river doesn't lap at the rocks, doesn't even speed up from its smooth and steady pace downstream.

Allison hears the rev of an engine and grits her teeth.

When the beta- when Boyd and the alpha split up in the forest, Allison carefully slowed down on her ATV to follow the two assigned to hunt an innocent boy.

“I could have helped you,” Allison tells him, voice empty. She wants to rub at the tears running down her face. A voice is crooning in her ear that they're a weakness and it makes her sick. There's a layer of water filmed over her eyes and her hands won't stop shaking.

When one of the men, Jason, her mind recalls, raised his gun to shoot Boyd in the back, Allison had acted blindly. She knocked her quad into the back wheel of his and sent him spiraling into a tree. She can still hear the crash of metal hitting wood, the quiet thunk as his bullet released, and the scream of the other Argent man who'd been hit by friendly fire in his crash.

A bullet went through his arm, making him jerk his handles and get flipped. He's laying in the middle of the forest, ATV on top of him, and Allison isn't even sure if he's alive.

She isn't even sure if she cares or not.

But Boyd's still laying on the ground in front of her, still bleeding from two arrows, still baring his teeth at her like he isn't sure if he should kill her or not. If Allison were him, she would do it. Allison would kill the person responsible for Erica being in the ground without even a proper funeral, would kill the stupid, ignorant hunter's daughter who got his best friend murdered.

“I'm sorry,” she chokes out in a sob. Her arms are shaking and she lowers them to her sides, string still pulled taught between her fingers in a way that aches, “I'm so sorry, Boyd.”

There's a beat of silence, but then the forest floor shakes, and Allison can hear the sound of engines revving. They're getting closer, and Allison's heart squeezes painfully in her chest. She lifts up her arrow again, hearing Kate whispering in her ear.

“Kill it, sweetheart.”

“It's just an animal.”

“Euthanize it.”

But she can't, can't even consider it because it's Boyd, because he tried to know her beyond her last name, because Erica loved him and considered him a brother, because Boyd is tall and imposing, with muscles as big as Allison's head, but he has never been anything but soft in a world that expects him to be hard.

Because Boyd tried to smile at her on her first day of a new school and almost every day after that.

She fires an arrow and it lands next to his foot, another and it lands between his spread legs. He jerks back, more out of instinct than anything, and she screams at him, her voice broken and ugly and cracked, “Run!”

She fires another and Boyd is off, running as fast as he can through the trees. He runs so far that his family moves the next morning, runs so far that he drops off the Argent's radar.

He runs and runs and Allison is finally able to sleep at night, hand relaxed around her knife and ears closed to any noises but the gentle sound of her own breathing.

  


  


9.

Fighting is written in Allison’s DNA, nestled between her ribosomes is a maddening little voice calling for blood, calling for death and anger and fury. Allison feels it thrumming deep in her bones, singing in her blood as she dances out of the way of a fist flying toward her face.

Her heart is pumping the words throughout her body, brain sending signals to her hands and feet, striking out with an instinct ingrained in her through years of gymnastics and kick boxing. She doesn't even think as she kicks her knee up, impaling it into a nameless man's face, bone crunching against her kneecap.

He falls and the marrow in her bones practically vibrates beneath her muscles, needing more and needing it now. Allison ducks just as another man barrels into the air where she was standing, quickly ducking down and swiping his feet out from under him.

When he's on the ground, she's standing with a knife in her hand and no idea how it got there. Her chest is rising and falling so quickly that she wonders if any air is actually reaching her lungs. Allison stares into his blue eyes, the blankness almost unnerving, before carefully lowering her arm, blade tight in her white knuckled grip.

There's clapping behind her and Allison turns, hating the way Kate smiles at her.

“Thirty seconds faster!” Kate beams, “You're really improving on your time, girl!”

Allison steps away from the sparring mat, not making eye contact with the man on the ground or the one nursing a broken nose in the corner. There's a ruthlessness in her adrenalin, something cold and hard like the bite of a knife that keeps her emotionless. She's learned to love this feeling, the way it protects her from Kate's silken words and Gerard's harsh glares. She wonders if that's what this is meant to do, if they're trying to get her addicted to blood and hate and rage. She wonders if it's working.

Victoria steps forward, arms folded across her chest, mouth frowning as she cuts in, “Improving, but not necessarily better.”

Allison wants to tell her mom that her shoulders ache, that her arms are burning, that she's done this same scenario twenty two times today and she's tired, but her mother's face is hard and her eyes are sharp and Allison knows better now. She's not a little girl who can whine her way to a later curfew or a bigger allowance. Until Kate deems her ready, Allison is worth nothing more than a soldier.

Less than, for the way she's marred the Argent name. Gerard has told her all of this in detail, late at night when he calls her into her father's study. He goes on and on about the Argent name, the code and what it means, their family's grand history of hunting and killing and blood, gleefully waiting for her face to crack and tears to pour out of her like a river. The only reason Allison hasn't yet is the soothing mental image of putting an arrow through her grandfathers heart.

Victoria steps onto the mat, delicately unzipping her boots, and gestures for two more men to take their places. There's a line of them out the door, big, burly men with muscles bigger than Allison's head. Their strength is nothing compared to an omega's, her aunt told her when they started combat training.

“Your weapon is the bow,” her mother says, untying the sash on her green robe, an anniversary gift from her father two years ago, and draping it across her shoes, “Because you like range. You like the safety of being far away while still being deadly to your opponent. Your father is the same way.”

Kate smirks and leans back against the counter, weapons of all types and sorts are laid out on a silver table behind her. Allison had to name them all yesterday, sorting them by type, alphabetically, and how likely they are to blow half of a man's head off. Kate wouldn't rest until Allison could say “ _Integrally Suppressed Semi-Automatic Pistol”_ in her sleep.

The two men stand in front of Victoria, taught and ready for her to strike. Allison watches as Victoria steps back, slipping into a fighting stance like a glove. Allison's never seen her mother fight before, thought Victoria was more of a behind the scenes string puller than a fighter, but it's hard to believe her mother could ever bake cookies on a Sunday morning when she looks at her now.

“You're good with a blade, but your movements are too controlled. You let your body speak for you like that and any skilled fighter would know your move before you make it. You're awkward and clunky with it, like you only know how to use it for a killing blow,” Victoria reaches behind her back and pulls two tiny, black daggers out of nowhere. The edges are silver and gleam under the florescent light. They fit in her palms perfectly, a ring on the bottom of the hilt lets her twirl the daggers between her fingers. “It's good for assassination, but not for hand to hand combat. You know how to fight, but you don't know how to incorporate the knife as part of you body. You use it as a weapon instead of as a limb, and it will be your downfall.”

The daggers stop twirling, lax in her mother's grip. Allison's breath hitches as the men rush at Victoria, only to freeze, time stopped as her mother casually rears her palm up and smashes her hand, hilt of the blade included, into a man's nose. The blade follows, slicing into the thick flesh of his cheek and cutting a quick line from the corner of his eye to his chin.

Blood rushes and splutters, the man crying out as her mother calmly kicks her leg up and hits him in the gut, heel of her foot digging into his stomach so hard that Allison thinks she hears a crack. At the same time, Victoria spins and makes the second man's neck smile, crimson spilling down his chest.

They both fall to the floor, flopping for air. The second one gurgles and spits, like he can't breathe, and Allison wants to vomit at the sight of a fountain of blood squirting out of his throat, even after he stops moving. Victoria wastes no time and drops the dagger into the first man's chest, face stone still as it cleaves his flesh and jams into his heart.

The air is silent for all of two seconds before Kate whistles and she grins, wide and wicked, “That was _sexy_.”

Allison can't even process that, mouth opened in shock as her mother stands and wipes her bloody knives on her shirt. The red makes a harsh mess on her white tank top, but Victoria doesn't seem to mind too much.

Her mother steps toward her and Allison flinches at it, getting the same, disappointed look she got months ago when her mother was cleaning her wounds. There's nowhere for her to go, backed up against the weapons table, and she's forced to stay as her mother stalks toward her, bloody and messy and bodies littering the ground behind her.

“These,” Victoria says, lifting the two knives and putting them in Allison's weak, trembling hands, “Are Chinese ring daggers. We will practice with them for three hours a day until you're acceptable with them. Is that clear?”

Allison can't even look at her mother, stomach twisting and throat burning because all she can see is Victoria driving these same knives into that man's heart, can't do anything but picture it's her, picture it's Erica beneath her.

Her eyes grow wet and Allison quickly shuts them, hates herself for being weak and hates her family even more. She nods and says, “Yes, mother,” even though her voice cracks.

Victoria wraps Allison in a hug, getting blood on Allison's clothes. Allison tries to relax into the embrace, tries to remind herself that this is her mother, that this is supposed to be soothing, that she loves Victoria.

She's almost able to relax when Victoria whispers in her ear, “Next time, Allison, you _will_ kill them.”

  


  


  


10.

When Allison was a little girl, her Aunt Kate was her best friend.

She moved a lot, life uprooted from one town to the next in a matter of weeks or months. At some points, she gave up even bothering to make friends, not wanting to to deal with getting to know someone just to leave them again.

Her Aunt Kate would follow her anywhere, acting as the one pillar of stability in Allison's life. She listened to all of Allison's stories or complaints with a bright smile and light in her eyes, making witty comments at the right times and nodding sympathetically at the others.

Her mom was always so cold with her growing up, rarely showing the barest hint of emotion. Not to say that Allison didn't love her mother. She did, as much as any daughter cared for her mother, but there was always this careful wall between them. Her dad was usually the only one to make Victoria laugh, to make her smile so full of warmth and happiness that Allison had to look away from such a personal moment.

Victoria did all the things a mom is supposed to do. She loved her and supported her, bought her clothes and went with her to get her haircut, listened as she talked about crushes, wasn't concerned when the pronouns switched between he and she, cooked her a warm breakfast and dinner and always packed her lunches. They always felt so customary though, as if Victoria was doing it because it was expected of her, not out of any desire to actually do them.

Kate, though, Kate looked at Allison like the sun revolved around her. She always treated her like an adult, not once invalidating anything she said just because she was young.

When Allison got interested in photography, Kate bought her her first camera, a Nikon 3d00s. When Allison decided she liked painting instead, Kate kidnapped her and took her to the Louvre in France. When Allison wrote a few poems, Kate dragged her to every hipster cafe shop in the city to do spoken word and cheered her on the entire time.

Kate's always been so supportive and invested in anything Allison wanted to do, but Allison never considered how her aunt would be if it was something she wasn't interested in. The answer, as it turns out, is just as supportive as ever.

It's late when Kate sneaks into her room, moon high in the sky, spilling out through her window as a constant reminder of what it represents. Kate smiles at the sight of it, eyes constantly bloodthirsty and wicked in a way that makes Allison shiver and clutch her blankets tighter around her.

“I wanted you to learn sooner,” Kate admits quietly, mattress dipping as she sits at the end of it. Her back is curved, elbows resting on her knees and hair covering her face so Allison can't see her expression. She can't tell if she's happy about it or not, not seeing the disturbed glee her aunt has for the moon and the wolves it calls to but not being able to gauge her expression. “When you had just gotten that trophy for gymnastics, do you remember? You might've been eight, maybe nine, and I thought, ' _Wow, this girl could go places.'_ Under the right influence, of course. Your father, well, he didn't think so.”

Allison stays quiet, wishing her blanket could block out the world, that sleep could take her over so she could escape this nightmare just for a few more hours.

“Do you remember that summer when I couldn't come visit because I was in Prague? Your parents barred me from coming to the house, all because I slipped you a fairytale where Little Red Riding Hood kills the wolf! Some people, huh?”

Allison remembers that book, remembers mouth dropping at the ending, feeling so excited and vindicated about Red Riding Hood saving herself instead of waiting for others to do it for her. The granny lived, all because Little Red wasn't tricked, and she poisoned the wolf with chocolate sweets and left him to die in the middle of the road.

There's a chill down her back and Allison tugs her blanket tighter around her, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Kate leans back on her elbows, hair falling down her back and pooling on the patch of moonlight on Allison's bedspread, “They didn't want you to know anything. Chris said if I gave you anymore hints after that, he would make sure I never saw a hair on your head again. The ass.”

She can't help but ask, question burning under her tongue ever since Victoria shoved pictures of dead bodies in her face, “Why?”

Kate hums, a considering noise. She rolls over and crawls up the bed until she's laying next to Allison, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. Allison refuses to roll over, body frozen like ice, eyes focused on the moon outside her window.

“They were scared, I imagine. They look at you and don't see what I see. They see a little girl,” Kate finally says, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. “Did you know, I used to have another brother? He was a tiny little thing, all fragile with these cute, delicate little features. Like an imp, y'know? Some kids, they just look like they're made of glass.”

“But, you know your grandfather,” Kate laughs, “That man doesn't take no for an answer. Believe me, sweetheart, if you're father hadn't of killed your little girlfriend, Gerard would have made you wish he had.”

Allison bites into her bottom lip so hard she fears it may bleed, eyes clamping shut tight. It makes her feel sick to even think of Gerard and Erica in the same sentence, let alone the same room. She's seen Gerard's car, the trunk full of car batteries and cattle prods and can't stop the barge of images behind her eyes. Erica tied up and tortured beyond repair, Allison forced to _watch_ , Allison forced to _help_.

The only thing that keeps her from scrambling for the toilet is Kate's gentle grip on her shoulder, acting more like a vice than support.

There's a sigh, and Kate continues, “Caleb knew about the business since he was eight. God, he detested it. Gerard and him would get in these huge arguments that lasted _hours_. Chris and I did what we could to protect him, you know? Covering for him when he skipped training sessions and begging him to just go along with it. He fought though- tooth and nail. Even though he would always come back with all sorts of bruises. He just wouldn't give in, you know? Stubborn little thing.”

Something cold settles in Allison's stomach at Kate's melancholy tone. Allison's never heard of an Uncle Caleb, has never heard him mentioned or seen childhood pictures of him, and her entire body is frozen as she quietly admits, “When my parents told me, they said I _had_ to learn. Like it was a requirement. My dad, he said it was my responsibility now. That, because I knew, I _had_ to do it.”

A cloud passes in front of the moon, minutely blocking out its light. The bed shifts and Kate sits back up, smiling sadly into the darkness of her room. “Yeah. That's the same thing Gerard used to say. It's what he said, after he did it. To justify it. _'We have a responsibility.'_ Caleb,” she laughs, bitterly, “Shit, he always was such a stubborn little brat.”

Kate laughs again, but it catches in her throat, coming out like a croak.

Allison unclenches her body and rolls over, hair fanning across the pillows as she looks up at her aunt, still smiling despite how sad her eyes seem.

“I can understand Chris not wanting you to know, as much as I disagreed with it.” Kate says, “If you took the news badly, then, well... Caleb and Chris were really close.”

There's a beat of silence and then Kate pats her leg, stretching as she stands from the bed. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a silver necklace, a small, circle shaped pendant on the end. It gleams in the night, an engraving of a wolf looking up at a star in the center of it.

Kate pools it onto the empty side of Allison's bed and tells her, “This has been handed down in our family for generations. My mom gave it to me when I started my training, and her mom before her. It's a tradition of sorts,” Kate smiles, “I think it's about time I give it to you. I'll let you get some sleep, angel. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Allison waits for her aunt to turn toward the door before grabbing the necklace. It's cold in her grip, and she fingers the engraved wolf with trembling hands. Kate's hand is on the doorknob when Allison finally gets the courage to ask, “Kate? What happened to Caleb?”

Her aunt turns around, face unreadable in the dark awning above her door, and tells her, voice carefully blank, “Gerard still swears it was an omega, but Chris and I were old enough to know what knife wounds looked like.”

The door closes quietly behind her, and Allison spends the rest of the night turning the necklace over in her hands, an unshakable tremor working down her spine.

  


  


11.

Allison's family has a deep history with martial arts. Her father had her in MMA classes by the time she was ten, and forced her to keep up with it when gymnastics was in the off season. Chris would come home from work, roll out a large mat in their garage, and make Allison try to bring him to his knees. To this day, she still hasn't been able to.

She hasn't seen much of her father lately, and she can't tell if it's because she's avoiding him or if Kate and Gerard just have her so busy that she doesn't have time to sneak down corridors or duck out of sight when her father's around. All she knows is Kate's pouty face the next morning when she says, “Your dad is taking you for the day. We'll practice tomorrow, okay sweetie?”

Allison doesn't want to be anywhere near her dad, but she sees Gerard over Kate's shoulder, holding a thick rope, a clear garbage bag full of what she hopes to be raw steaks, and a broad sword and decides to not put up a fight on the matter.

Kate sends her on her way with a hug and a smirk at Allison's neck where the pendant rests, directing her to her father's office.

Seeing her dad stirs a fury in her, bringing up all of the emotions she's learned to bury over the past few months. Seeing him reminds her of Erica, of the blood rushing down her face, and she clenches her fist, fighting the urge to strike out at him. It's hard, especially with Kate's voice in her ear, hissing _attack_ and _fight_ to the rising beat of her heart.

Chris doesn't even look at her as she enters, shoulders tense and back straight. He looks around her, through her, as if she isn't even there, and for some reason that makes her stomach clench, the angry fury in her turning into a storm.

He puts two large buckets of sand on the desk in front of her, and orders her, “Punch it.”

With a quick look at him, as if to make sure it's what he truly wants, Allison does. It's not hard, not with all of the hate stored up in her. She hates him, hates Gerard and Kate and Victoria, hates Erica and Boyd for not telling her what they were, but mostly, she hates herself. She hates and hates and hates so much, and she's so tired of living with all of this rage inside of herself but doesn't know how to get rid of it. It festers and grows and all she knows how to do is ignore it until her body is an infection that she can't cure until it hurts to breathe, to think, to live.

So she punches and punches until her hands ache, until it feels like the sand is cement and her bones are nothing but soft marrow, until the world feels like it isn't on fire and her eyes are soaking wet with tears.

“In martial arts, there's something called breaking,” Chris says to her, when the sand feel like shards of glass and her chest can't stop heaving, “When you punch something hard enough, your hands break.”

He lifts his own palm and Allison looks at the rough callouses from handguns, wonders when her own soft hands will look the same. Her father turns his hand and traces along the back, down the five bones and tendons that connect to his arm.

“Small, tiny hairline fractures. When a bone breaks, it melds back together.” He makes a fist and the muscles in his arms flex, like muscle memory is preparing for a smattering of blows. “The human body is meant for adaption and survival. Every time something in us breaks, it grows back stronger than before. Your skin, your bones, and your muscles; it all becomes more dense, better prepared to make sure you can defend yourself.”

Allison's own hands are tiny. They're soft from applying lotion twice a day, and her nails are pristine and clear. Her father's are chipped, dirt caught under the edge like a permanent stain, and his hands are rough and hard. He used to hold her when she was younger and she would trace the lines and grooves of his palm, counting each little line and feeling the texture scratch against her own skin. She always felt safe there, protected by his strong arms and big hands, and she recalls the memory as another sob builds in her throat.

Chris grabs her hand and the difference is still plain and clear. The sob croaks from her and he says, “I love you so much,” like it's an apology, like it's enough to make her stop crying, but all she can see is the truth in front of her.

He is rough while she is soft. He is hard while she is weak.

“You will grow back stronger from this, Allison,” Chris tells her, voice gruff with emotion. He grabs her and pulls her close, pressing a gentle kiss to the scar on her forehead. He holds her and shushes her, tells her he loves her again and again and again until it aches and throbs like an open wound.

Allison doesn't know how long she stands there and sobs into her father's shoulder, but soon his words drown out, and all she can hear is the truth.

He is healed bone, and she is a broken fracture.

  


  


12.

The basement is dark and damp, a draft turning the stone frozen as the temperature slowly drops outside. Allison's been in this room for what feels like hours, kept chained with what is definitely not a novelty pair of handcuffs. Her wrist are raw from her struggles, fighting like an animal with its leg caught in a trap to escape from the metal gate.

She doesn't understand why she's so surprised. She should be use to being tied up somewhere at this point.

Her shoulders ache from the position and there's only so many ways she can move with her hands as they are. None of them are comfortable. Her left foot is numb from poor circulation and she's afraid to move it, doesn't want to deal with the pins and needles stabbing into her skin from the returned blood flow. She's already uncomfortable enough.

Allison closes her eyes and tries to pretend she's elsewhere, wishes this is all a bad dream and she can wake up back in her bed. It's become a nightly mantra of sorts, to hide under her covers and imagine a life where none of this is possible, where werewolves are stories told to children around campfires and her girlfriend is still alive, where her family doesn't treat her like an initiate into a cult and her parents smile at her again.

It's another hour before a door opens. Light floods into the basement and she blinks away at it, cringing as it burns against her eyes. She hears footsteps on rickety stairs and forces herself to look around, now that she can see, to get a feel for the environment so she's not completely helpless.

They're not in the Argent basement, that's for sure. It's more like a cellar than anything, walls and floor made of the same stone. The stairs are wooden and fragile looking, blackened from decay. Allison prays they break and her kidnapper falls through a step, breaks their neck.

She's not surprised when Gerard comes into view, flanked by two lower initiates. They both have the same stiff hair cut and square jaws, accentuating a stoniness only rivaled by men in the military. They don't look at her as they reach the last step, just off into the distance. Allison wonders how long it took to beat that kind of discipline into them, how long it will be before she's like that. Just another bullet in an Argent gun.

Gerard smiles at her in a grandfatherly way and it makes Allison want to spit in his face. She beats her hand against the gate and demands over the loud clang, “Let me go.”

Her voice is rough, throat aching for water, and Gerard simply raises his eyebrows at her.

He ignores her in favor of tsking, “You didn't even try to escape, dearie?”

Allison scoffs. She doesn't tell him that she tried, that she kicked and screamed until her entire body ached. There was no way to get out of the cuffs, not from her position in the room. She tried anything she could grab, but it was futile and only left her in pain and frustrated. Her fingers are bleeding from trying to rip pieces of wood out of a nearby crate. “What's the point? I knew you'd be down for my _lesson_ eventually.”

She's tired and sore, back stiff and body aching, and she just wants to get this over with. Gerard can ramble on with his lecture about courage and honor and then she can finally go to her room. It's a recurring pattern as of late. She lives day to day just for the sanctity of sleep.

“You've gotten complacent, Allison,” says Gerard, “What if the lesson was for you to escape from your restraints?”

“I've already done that,” Allison tells him tiredly, “Ask Kate.”

Gerard hums in agreement, “Passed it with flying colors, so I hear, dear. Yes, you're going to be a fine hunter someday, if only we can get some life back into you.”

Allison doesn't point out that she's breathing right in front of him, doesn't tell him that this life that he's forcing her into isn't one she wants. She bites her tongue, keeps silent because it's the only thing that lets her survive. She just wants this to be over already, and she's willing to put aside her pride if only the old man would get on with it.

He seems to sense that she's done for now and sighs. He reaches behind him, palm opened, and snaps his fingers. The soldier on his right is quick to pull a bottle of water out of his backpack and place it into Gerard's palm before falling back into formation. It makes Allison sick.

She eyes the water bottle with interest, trying to figure out Gerard's game. Is he going to make her beg? Is he trying to break her some more? What else could he possibly want from her?

Gerard grips her forearm hard enough that the bone creaks and Allison refuses to react to it, body shaking with tremors as heat races up her arm. She bites her lip and keeps her cry inside. He smirks at that and aggressively presses the water bottle into her bound hands.

“Drink slow,” he advises, “Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.”

The words make her curl her lips back in disgust.

With shaking hands, Allison undoes the lid of the bottle and awkwardly moves closer to takes a sip of it, feels the instant relief drench her parched tongue. She continues like that, taking small drinks and letting the cold soak into her chest, soothing the desert in her throat.

“I tied your father up like this once, you know,” Gerard starts, “Chris has always been a good soldier. Ever since he was born, he's had a strong regard for control and order. It's a gift, honestly. I believe it's what makes him a good hunter. That control. That ability to compartmentalize himself. Remarkable, really.”

Gerard crouches down next to her, slowly brushing a piece of her hair back. Allison flinches away from him, slaps herself up against the wall and fights the urge to bite his hand. He smiles at her reaction and acid teases at her throat

“When a hunter comes of age, it is tradition to steal them. We tie them up in chairs with thick ropes and wait for them to escape. We were going to do the same for you, but I suggested that we needed to push you harder than a simple chair. After all, a betrayal like yours can't be ignored.”

It shocks Allison, his casual admittance of her _sordid affair_ and she snarls at him, shoving herself away from the metal as if to attack him, the give in the cuffs cutting her off an inch from his nose, “I _loved_ her.”

Gerard ignores her, continuing on like she's nothing but a fly, “Some take hours, but others, like your father, take mere minutes. It was astonishing, watching him escape. He was like a machine, quickly looking through every possible scenario for the perfect solution. Do you know what he did, Allison?”

Allison takes a long drink of her water, eying the spot just above Gerard's shoulder with enough intensity to set the place ablaze.

“ _He broke the chair._ It wasn't anything I had seen before. Most children cut themselves out with items in the room or squirm until the bindings come loose, but your father didn't waste any time. And do you know what he did when I cuffed him a metal fence in the middle of winter?”

Gerard reaches out and touches her arm again, a simple caress that has her jerking back, arm still throbbing from his earlier abuse, but Gerard doesn't grip her again. He leans close and whispers softly, “He broke his own wrist.”

Allison's eyes widen at that, and she remembers her father's lesson only hours ago. How many times has her father broken himself just to please this man?

“One of our best soldiers. Infinitely loyal. Never questioning.” Gerard hums at her horrified stare, “Chris always had the potential to lead. If only our rules were different. Kate's remarkable, of course. A natural born leader, that girl, and I think you could be the same, Allison. I think you could be better than the both of them combined, with a little push, of course.”

“I'm not breaking my wrist,” Allison snaps at him, voice hard. She can picture her father, only a boy, younger than her, with enough determination to break his own bones just to escape. She wants to cry for him, feels her eyes sting at the image and she clenches them shut to force it away. She can't show weakness in front of Gerard, he'll sniff it out like a bloodhound.

Give him an inch and he'll take a mile, and it will leave Allison as a mindless follower with a blank stare and a penchant for blood.

He stands suddenly, and Allison hates how he towers over her. She feels so small, but she still meets his gaze, eyes hard.

“What are our words?” He asks simply.

" _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent._ " The two boys behind Gerard immediately reply in tandem, voices loud and passionate.

“In English.”

“We hunt those who hunt us.”

Gerard smiles at her, tauntingly, “Again.”

“We hunt those who hunt us.”

“Again.”

“We hunt those who hunt us.”

“Allison, dear,” Gerard's voice rings, words lined with a taunt and Allison feels saliva gather in her mouth, wants to spit in his face, “What are our words?”

She says nothing.

The smile slips off of his face and his voice bellows as he demands, “ _What_ is our code?”

She stays silent, even as she hears her father turn the words over in her head. They run through her mind like a mantra, but the cuffs still dig into her wrist and all she can see is Gerard's sharp teeth and how he looks at her as if she is prey.

He crouches down in front of her, eyes hard and voice disappointed as he hisses, “I will leave you down here for days, Allison dear. Don't test me.”

She doesn't doubt him for a second.

“Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” she says mindlessly, imagining her hands painted red with Gerard's blood. The words are airy, stilted and monotone like a tape recording, “We hunt those who hunt us.”

It's enough to please him, at least for now.

“You're an Argent,” he tells her, “And whether you like it or not, this is our job. This is your blood, and I will not stand by and let you continue to tarnish what we have sacrificed over 400 years to build.”

Allison shrinks away from the intensity of his words, wishing there was someone here to act as a buffer. Kate doesn't usually leave her alone with Gerard, and Allison wonders if he even consulted her about this, if he just decided to steal away with her for some special tutoring. Allison wonders how a family can preach so much about their matriarchy while continuously acting outside of it.

“Your grandma, now, she was a real leader,” Gerard smiles, “Hunters came from miles to learn from her. She was,” he sighs fondly, “Particularly charismatic.

“Kate was lucky to learn from her, but she was young when her mother died, killed by a lucky savage on a routine hunt. Only thirteen, she was. Kate flourished under the responsibility, especially with me at her side. I sometimes wish Inès could have seen who our daughter grew into...” Gerard clears his throat and waves his hand, “Some people just have that je ne sais quoi. It inspires people. It _moves_ people. I think you, like your aunt and Inès before you, have that special something, Allison.”

“I don't!” Allison protest, choking under his words. She doesn't understand what her family sees in her, how they can see anything other than the constant terror she lives in. How can they expect her to lead when she can't even breathe? How can they call her inspirational when she's supposedly committed the ultimate taboo? “I don't even _want_ any part of this.”

Gerard smiles placating at her. “Nonsense,” he says, “You're a natural, my dear.”

He snaps his fingers and the boy on his right pulls a tiny, silver key out of his pocket. Gerard slowly grips her wrist, touch surprisingly gentle despite the mania in his eyes, and begins to uncuff her. Allison breathes out shakily as they click open, quickly pulling her arms toward her chest defensively. She stumbles backward, falls against the wall and rubs at her raw wrist.

A chill races up her spine as Gerard grins with sharp teeth, “I'll prove it to you.”

  


  


13.

The woods are dark and cold. Even swaddled in leather Allison can feel the temperature in her bones. It's winter in northern California, temperature dipping low enough that her breath fogs on every exhale. The five men following behind her don't complain about it, stand as if the cold is a figment of her imagination, so Allison clenches her fist to keep the shaking hidden.

“There's tracks up ahead,” one of the men says, although he seems to be barely older than her. His face is lined with a patchy beard and his voice is a thick accent. Allison doesn't know his name, or any of the others.

She wasn't introduced and they didn't offer. Gerard threw her in a black van with five other people and told her good luck with a wicked glint in his eye. From there, and the broken conversation slipping between French and English, Allison has been able to determine that she's leading a hunting posse in search of a feral alpha.

Sink or swim training. It's Allison's least favorite part of this whole mess. She can't look to anyone to ask what to do, or to ask if this alpha is truly guilty by the law of the code. Allison has five eyes looking up to her to guide them and she has no idea what to do.

She's only been privy to two hunting parties in her short career, both led by Kate. Her aunt controls the searches with saucy winks and sharp orders, and she always seems to know the right call. Her people follow her blindly, and Allison has no idea how Kate can garner respect so seamlessly.

If she had more time, if she had been better prepared, Allison would have set up sound emitters to corral the wolf near the stream, where their scents would be blocked by mud and their heartbeats would be muffled by running water. It would be easy, if she wasn't thrown to the wolves as prey.

Sink or swim. Live or die. Gerard wants her to fail.

The man to Allison's right is twitching like he wants to usurp her and Allison remembers that night on the roof with Gerard, remembers him demanding her to rise to her birthright, and she clears her throat.

She crouches down beside the footprints, bare feet in fresh snow. She thinks they're an hour old, maybe less. There's a dip of red pooled sporadically in a few of the tracks.

“He's near here,” Allison says, relief allowing her to breathe. The sooner she gets this done, the sooner she can go home. Allison feels the weight of her bow on her back and the daggers stowed away at her wrist.

She jerks her chin and the men follow her, creeping through the thick woods silently. The night vision goggles are snug against her face, casting the forest in a deep shade of green. The tracks begin to stumble and wind, and Allison wonders if the werewolf is already lying dead somewhere, died from blood loss, but she has to remind herself that her life is never that easy.

There's a rustle to her right and Allison turns in the direction of it, arrow drawn as she jerks around. Her men do the same, the sound of safeties clicking off loud in the quiet of the night. Her heart is hammering, fast and loud like a humming bird. Allison is sure the creature can hear her.

Allison does what a leader is supposed to do. She steps toward the bush, arrow drawn so tight she swears the blood has been cut off to her fingers. Every step is cautious, as if she's afraid to set off a land mine.

The wind howls, and with it, the long, drawn out sound of a wolf catching the smell of it's prey. The hair on the back of Allison's neck stands up and the undergrowth rustles, faster and louder, and there's a loud scream behind her.

She reacts as if she's been slapped and jerks back at the noise, spinning madly to catch sharp, bloodied fangs sneaking back into the dark. Her men are frantic, one's moaning and gurgling, and there's the horrifying sound of a person choking to death on their own blood.

Allison listens to it and feels like sobbing, feels angry and scared and she almost can't breathe, terror crushing her ribcage in a vice.

“What do we do?” Someone asks her, voice rough with fear.

Allison is frozen.

“Argent! What do we do?!”

There's another scream, louder this time, and it rakes against Allison's ears like nails on a chalkboard. It spurs her into action, and she fires blindly in the direction of the noise, listening to a high pitched whine as she nails the beast in the shoulder. She can't rejoice about the hit, can't even breathe because two men just died because she was _afraid_.

“Kill it!” She demands, and after that, the barrage of bullets overtakes her.

The forest comes to life with bangs and cracks and screams and Allison shoots at anything in the bushes that so much as moves, even if it's the wind playing tricks on her. They fire until their weapons are empty and their chest are heaving, and Allison feels as if she's going to be sick.

It's silent for a second, save for the heavy breathing and panting of her comrades.

“Did we get it?” The youngest asks, looking around with sharp, cautious eyes.

“We had to 've,” another says, “Rotten bastard. Shit, the mutt got Joey.”

A man with arms bigger than Allison's head crouches down beside one of the bodies, sighing in French, “Mickaël aussi.”

No one's ever died on her aunt's hunts. Kate always comes back with everyone she left with, a giant smile on her face and a kill under her belt. Allison's skin feels clammy as she looks upon the men that died because of her leadership, their glassy eyes and bloodied, pale skin.

Her legs are wobbling and her heart won't stop trying to jump out of her chest so she leans against a tree, tries to catch her breath and calm down.

“You,” Allison points to the one of the three men left who's not mourning the dead. Allison reloads her bow with her last arrow and jerks her chin to the left. “Come with me. We have to find the body.”

Allison doesn't want to think about what Gerard would do to her without any proof. She shudders to a stand and wills her legs to stop shaking. The man makes a face, like he wants to protest, before catching himself and nods. He changes clips and holds his gun poised, nodding at her to lead the way.

She swallows thickly and walks into the brush, stepping slowly over twigs and leaves. She listens closely, trying to hear breathing or panting or the sound of one dying. The forest is silent though, only crickets chirping as they search.

“There has to be blood,” Allison whispers to her partner, “We all shot him at least once.”

The man nods and they continue looking, searching each leaf and speck of dirt for a drop of crimson.

“Hey,” he hisses to her, “I think there's something-”

Silence.

Allison turns quickly, bolt poised to fly, but the man is gone, and all that remains is a rustle of leaves. Allison swallows the cry building in her throat and creeps slowly toward the bush, careful to not make a peep. Could the creature still be alive? Perhaps her partner just fell.

There's a thick gasp of air, like someone gurgling and Allison rushes forward, releasing her bow as soon as she catches sight of the monstrous beast.

Allison feels her blood run cold and she wants to scream. How is the werewolf still going? Is she so bad of a leader that she can't even kill something?

The man cries out sharply, a pain filled sound that sends Allison into action. She reaches back to her quiver to find no more arrows, but before she can think twice about it, she's throws herself on the werwolf’s back, forces her bow over his head, and pulls tight.

He chokes around her bow-string, coughing and growling like an angry bull and Allison holds on tight with her thighs around his torso as he thrashes her. She pulls against her bow so hard that it would cut clean through any human's throat, and her eyes are wet as she listens to his pain filled howls mixing with the dying man below him.

She just wants this to be over.

He thrashes again and sends her bucking off of him, bow-string snapping at the force of it. It flies out of her hands as she land harshly on the ground, air leaving her lungs and she gasps like a fish without water. Her night vision goggles topple off of her head and her world is a black blur.

The werewolf crowds her against the ground, face twisted into sharp lines and animal eyes that watch her as if she's food. They glow bright red in front of her face, manic and angry. He roars at her, loud and thick, vibrating her bones and sending her heart hammering.

His mouth is wide and bloodied, red saliva gleaming off of his fangs. Allison cries out at the sight, scared and afraid and she remembers her mother's words, telling her she likes the safety of distance with her bow and wishes she could go back to a year ago, when it was just her and Erica and her life wasn't an endless spiel of blood and pain.

Allison flicks her wrist and grabs for her ring daggers, latching onto the comfort they give her. She's crying thick sobs as she slashes up, knife cutting deep into the monster's throat. He howls out in pain and a torrent of blood shoots out of the slit, the red fading from his eyes as it spills out of his neck. She gasps as the warmth of it crashes over her like a wave; blood on her face, her throat, her chest.

He slumps against her, all two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and Allison-

Allison screams.

  


  


14.

It takes an hour to clean the dried blood out of her tangled, matted hair. An entire hour of Allison sitting in a bathtub, knees pulled tight to her chest, while the water rushes over her.

Chris was the one to pull her from the back of the van, a fire in his eyes and mouth gnarled into an angry snarl. He took one look at her, drenched in blood and tears running down her face, and pulled her tight to his chest, something akin to a sob escaping him. She could hear Gerard and Kate far off, but her father kept her hidden against him and yelled at them, voice sharp with fury and Allison let him guide her into the house, legs weak and body numb.

Victoria took her from him without hesitation, getting blood on her pretty green dress. Her mother shushed her tired, crazed ramblings, undressed her and guided her into the tub. Her hands are sure and steady as they comb out her hair and run a wash cloth along her skin, lips tightening as Allison doesn't even move to stop her.

All she can see is the beast roaring in her face, over and over again as the sound of men dying plays like a record in her ears. The water feels thick like blood as it washes over her.

“I'm sorry,” Allison whispers. She doesn't know what she's apologizing for, the deaths of her men or her failure. She doesn't feel any better as the words tumble out.

Her mother's stone face cracks, eyes soft with concern and mouth pulled down in a harsh frown. She opens her mouth once, twice, before closing it with a click.

Victoria upends a glass of water over Allison's head, washing out the last of the soap, dirt and blood. It reminds Allison of when she was a child, not even five years old, and her mother would make her giant bubble baths and let her swim in them for what felt like hours.

She wishes she could be that small again, when her mother could wrap her in a towel and protect her from the world.

“I'm sorry too, Allison,” Victoria says, voice blank. Allison looks up at her, her crumbled face and clenched eyes. Her hands are white and shaking where they grip the edge of the tub, and the words sound like razor blades are lining her throat when she says it again, “I'm honestly so sorry.”

Allison's too tired for this. She turns away, stares straight ahead at the pristine tiles lining the walls of the shower. She barely registers her mother emptying the tub, or pulling her up and wrapping a towel around her.

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she's laying in her bed. Her covers are pulled up around her neck, swaddling her in warmth and security. It's dark in her room, the crescent moon hidden behind storm clouds. Allison briefly wonders if it will rain tomorrow.

Outside her room, she hears loud bangs, items being thrown and doors being slammed. Harsh voices trade harsher words. They argue back and forth like wolves over the last piece of meat. Allison quickly realizes that she's the meat.

“She's too young for this,” Chris hisses, “Haven't you traumatized her enough?”

“You're the one who started it. We're just teaching her how to deal with it.” Kate argues easily.

“Yes, Kate, forcing her to lead a hunting party after a rogue alpha with zero information or preparation is a really good teaching method. She hasn't even fought with a _beta_ yet,” her father yells, “She could have _died_.”

“Ah, but she didn't,” Gerard butts in, “She lived, and as such she has learned. Allison did good tonight, but a better leader would have been able to get everyone out alive. You read Smith's report. She _froze_.”

Allison remembers it. The all encompassing fear. The feeling as if she was drowning. How she couldn't move. It was weak. _She_ was _weak_. Three men _died_ because she was too afraid to make the right call.

“There isn't always time to prepare for battle,” Gerard continues, “Tonight was a good lesson for Allison, and for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Chris asks, voice on the verge of a scream. He sounds frustrated, and Allison imagines his jaw clenched, the veins in his forearm popping.

“You can't protect her, Chris. Not from this.”

“The only thing I need to protect her from is _you_.”

“Go back to sleep, Allison,” a voice demands.

Allison startles at that and rolls over quickly, hand reaching for the knife stowed beneath her pillow, only to see Victoria sitting in the armchair in the corner of Allison's room. Her eyes are far away as she stares out the window, seeing things other than the night sky. Allison wonders how long her mother has been here, keeping watch over her. She wonders how it escaped her notice.

Her mother blinks and turns to meet her eyes, a steely cold look in her gaze.

She stands, and Allison grits her teeth when she sees that her mother is still wearing the blood stained, green dress from earlier. She's frozen as her mother tugs the blanket up tighter around her, stops breathing as Victoria leans forward, places a gentle kiss to her forehead. There's something off about her, a darkness Allison has never seen in her before and it scares her almost as much as the werewolf had.

“You need your rest,” she says, voice too calm.

Allison doesn't have the energy to fight her on that. Victoria is still standing over her, presence as comforting as it is fear inducing, as she falls back into a restless sleep. She dreams of terror and pain and ripped out throats, and when she wakes the next morning, there's no one to hold her hair back as she rolls over and vomits onto the pristine carpet.

Her chair is undisturbed and the house is silent, and Allison wonders if she dreamed the entire night.

  


15.

Allison stays in her room. She doesn't leave, and no one comes to fetch her. There's no growl emitters to wake her up, and no one to knock on her door for early morning training. It's odd, especially after living her life the past few months on a strict schedule, but Allison doesn't have the energy to question it.

Someone leaves food at her door three times a day, and sometimes she eats it, but most of the time it's left to sit outside her room. She only escapes to the bathroom when she's sure the hallway is empty, heart pounding at the thought of running into anyone. She mostly hides under her covers, curled into a ball, with eyes closed and wishing for dreamless sleep.

It rarely comes. She dreams of werewolves and hunters, of death and blood. There's red eyes that follow her down dark paths, and dead bodies lying in her wake. Sometimes she's on the ground, throat ripped out and eyes wide and glossy. Sometimes her mouth is covered in blood, a large heart in her hands and a wicked smirk on her face.

She's not sure which dreams are more horrifying.

Her door clicks open for the first time in days, and Allison peaks over the edge of her comforter, frowning to herself when she sees Kate standing in her doorway. There's a hesitant smile on her face and she waves at Allison.

“Hey, girlie. It's been a few days,” Kate says, stepping deeper into the bedroom.

Allison doesn't know how to reply to that. She's been content to be ignorant about her family leaving her alone, but now she's suspicious. Was this all another mind game? Were they seeing how she would cope?

Allison sits up and pools the blanket around her thighs. She leans back against the headboard casually, lays her hand close enough to reach her knife if necessary. Allison wishes for the days when she didn't have to hold weapons to have discussions with her aunt.

“You doing okay? You're looking a little pale,” Kate raises an eyebrow at her, but the smile remains fixed on her face.

“I'm fine,” Allison says, voice croaking from disuse. She can't remember the last time she drank anything was. “Do you need something?”

Her smile slips for a second, but Kate is an expert at pretending, and she slaps another one on just as quickly, “I just wanted to say hey to my favorite niece! I wanted to come by sooner, but Victoria has been... Well. I had to wait for her to start packing for our hunt tonight to get you alone,” she laughs awkwardly, “You know your mom.”

Allison hasn't felt like she's known who anyone is in a long time, but something about Kate's words warm her. She remembers the cold and calculating look her mother wore the other night, and she wonders exactly what's been happening outside of her room.

Kate's never been afraid to step on anyone's toes. Allison doesn't want to know what her mother's done to keep her aunt away from her.

“Look,” Kate breathes out, running a hand through her light hair, “Your grandfather and I- it seemed like a good idea at the time, sweetheart. You know I only have your best interest at heart, right?”

“Do you?” Allison asks, surprising herself. Her voice is hard and Kate takes a step back at it, as if struck. “The aunt I knew wouldn't have thrown me to the wolves like that.”

“You handled it fine though!” Kate argues, trying to sound light hearted and fun, like she used to be. “I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you could handle it.”

She remembers when Kate tied her to a tree. She asked if Allison could handle it then, too, and all she could do was vomit on her shoes. Allison looks around her room and back to Kate. She smells, hasn't showered since that night, and her face is gaunt from not eating. All she can see when she looks at her hands is blood, and sometimes she shakes so hard her teeth chatter.

“Does this look like handling it to you?” Allison asks her, voice blank. She clenches her hands into fist and looks up at Kate, voice rising as she continues, “My family killed the girl I loved and turned my life upside down. I can't- I haven't even- I only just found out about werewolves months ago, and you demanded I kill one! It's my fault people _died_! _I_ almost _died_! And if you ever gave a damn about me, you wouldn't have done that to me!”

Kate holds her hands up in a placating gesture, stepping closer to the bed. Slowly, she sits on the corner of her mattress and Allison blinks away the tears itching behind her eyes. She misses her aunt so badly that it hurts, wants nothing more than to hug her and laugh like they used to.

“Allison, you know I love you more than _anything_ , sweetheart,” she says it with so much emotion that Allison has a hard time outright dismissing it. “I'm sorry if I pushed too hard. Gerard _promised_ me you would be safe.”

She lays her hand out for Allison to take, and Allison wants to grab it more than anything. She wants the comforting touch of her aunt, wants ice cream sundaes and late night movies. She misses their days at the beach and their shopping trips. Hunting has taken so much from her, and Allison is reminded of every loss as she stares at Kate's open palm.

She doesn't reach out for it though. Allison can't bring herself to do it, not now, not when there's so much bad between them it could fill a canyon.

Kate smiles sadly at her and brings her hand back to her lap, smile forced and small as she sighs, “I wish your parents had just bit the bullet and told you the big wolfy secret when you were younger. It would have been easier for you to accept it. Letting you live a normal life? Going so long without knowing? It wasn't fair to you.”

Allison shivers, afraid of how different she would be if Kate had her way.

“Gerard told me you took over the clan when you were thirteen,” Allison says, “Would you really want that for me?”

“Honestly?” Kate asks, looking at her out of the corner of her eyes. Allison nods. “Then yes. Your parents always looked at you and saw a scared little girl. What I saw? Natural talent. Pure instinct. You were made for this, Allison. There's a reason you started dating the Reyes girl.”

Allison looks over at her sharply, “What? What are you talking about?”

“It's why I was never mad at you for it,” Kate shrugs, “If your parents had told you sooner, then you would have known _why_ you were so interested in her. You didn't love her, Allison,” she laughs, as if the idea is hilarious, “You were trying to figure her out.”

“No,” Allison demands, shaking her head. Her hand tightens around her knife unconsciously. “No. You're wrong. I loved her and she loved me.”

Kate waves a hand, “Sure. You think she didn't know who you were? What your family did? I bet you she was dating you for the exact same reason.” She looks over at Allison, frowns at her stricken face. “They're just animals, sweetheart. Mindless killing machines. You had to have considered it, right? That she was using you?”

Allison's throat goes dry.

“Come on sweetie, I know you pay attention in school. I remember every single A you wrote me about!” Kate tsks at her, “What does an animal do when they're cornered?”

“Fight,” Allison answers distractedly. In her mind, she's running over every smile Erica sent her way, every kiss and hand tracing down her side. She looks at her words, hears her voice, tries to find any proof that Kate's right.

“Exactly. Fight or flight. Humans do that, too, but what happens when you combine a human mind with animalistic tendencies? Well,” Kate feigns a shrug, “You get a slightly smarter animal. She had to be doing recon on the Argents. I just wish that Chris had let us tell you sooner, sweetie. Then, you could have been doing the same to her.”

Allison looks up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since Kate entered her room. There's genuine sincerity in her blue eyes, but Allison knows just how well Kate can tell a lie. She remembers the first time Erica said she loved her, how her eyes were wide and her hands were shakey, and her lips trembled when she kissed her.

No one could fake that.

“Did you know that there used to be a huge pack in Beacon Hills?” Kate asks her, voice far away. “A big family one. The Hales. You remember them, right? The alpha that went crazy a month ago? He was Peter Hale.”

Allison vaguely remembers Kate mapping out hunting parties, but her mind mostly settles on Boyd and how she watched him run. Peter Hale bit Erica and Boyd against their will, and because of him one was dead and the other had to uproot his entire life. Allison doesn't regret his death, not at all.

“ _As you all know,”_ Allison remembers Kate saying, _“Laura Hale has always blamed us for what happened to her pack.”_

There's always something manic about Kate when she hunts. She comes alive like Allison has never seen her, like she's addicted to the adrenalin and blood.

Allison looks at Kate's far away stare, the ghost of a smile on her face, and asks in a small voice, “Kate, what did you do?”

Kate turns to her, eyes bright, and suddenly Allison is very afraid of the answer.

“Growing up, my dad always told me, _a good leader isn't afraid to take calculated risk_. Well, when I was nineteen, I decided to take one. We lived in the town for a while because back then, Beacon Hills was a big source for alpha meetings and we wanted to make sure that none of the beast got out of hand. There was a boy back then who I caught shifting in the woods with beta blue eyes. You remember what blue means, right?”

“They've murdered,” Allison recites numbly, chest trembling. Hunt those who hunt us gives no room for maybes or what ifs and definitely no second chances. A beta werewolves eyes are normally a bright orange, only second to the bright iris of their red alpha's. If a beta kills, if they shed innocent blood, then there eyes are permanently turned a cold, violent blue.

Kate smiles happily, “That's right! Now, his alpha was one of the most respected, and if she let her son murder innocents, I figured her pack had to be just as bad. I dated him for a bit, to get closer to him, and once he trusted me, he told me everything. It was too easy,” Kate laughs, “He was like putty. I managed to add so much to our bestiary, information other hunter's would kill for. You've read the bestiary, right?”

Allison nods blankly, growing more and more alarmed at the light in Kate's eyes. She imagines him, a young boy, possibly her age, twisted and manipulated by her aunt's carefully trained hands. Kate is all charisma and adrenalin, she must have been irresistible to the young man. It makes her sick, to imagine what her aunt did to gain his trust.

“When is a werewolf most vulnerable?” She asks quickly.

“The night of an eclipse,” Allison responds on ingrained instinct, entire body frozen as her mind runs through the possibilities, “They're like humans.”

Kate grins, “Exactly. I got a witch to surround the place with mountain ash and paid off some pyromaniacs to set it on fire. I wiped out _all_ of those monsters because of one weak link. Now, if you had been able to do that with your beta, imagine how much sooner we could have taken down the alpha? It would have been easy as cake.”

“How...” Allison gapes, “How could you do that?”

Kate's face drops in surprise. It's not the reaction she was expecting.

“They were people. They were a family,” she says, heart thudding loud in her ears. Allison sits up straighter, eyes narrowed at her aunt and demands, “How could you do that? What if there was children in there?!”

“Allison-”

“No!” Allison cuts her off, chest heaving, “You don't get to- You're a murder! You manipulated a teenage boy and then killed his _entire_ family. You. I can't even _look_ at you right now.”

Her stomach twists and drops and Allison feels bile at the back of her throat. She imagines the fire, an entire pack set ablaze because of her aunt. She throws the covers off of her and stands up, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Kate as possible.

“Allison,” Kate starts, voice filled with shock. She moves to stand but Allison holds a hand up, stilling her.

“No,” Allison orders, “Stay away from me.”

“Allison, they were animals-”

“Who cares?!” Allison yells, voice shrill and cracked. There are tears in her eyes and she hates how all she can think about is warm Saturday mornings, lazing around in the backyard with her aunt. She hates how she can love and hate this woman at the same time, even knowing how horrible she is. “They had feelings! They were a family! And you killed them without thinking about it just because of one person!”

Kate opens her mouth and closes it, looking lost and confused for the first time in Allison's life.

“You and Gerard keep saying I'm like you, but I'm not. I could _never_ kill innocent people,” Allison spits, glaring holes into Kate's head. She wraps the necklace Kate gave to her so long ago in her shaking hands, feeling them still as she tugs harshly on the chain. The metal bites like teeth into her neck and it suffocates her, stifles her under the weight of her family before it breaks with a sound like glass shattering.

Allison throws the pendant to Kate's feet and snarls, “I'll never be like you, and if I was? I'd rather be _dead_.”

It's dead silent after that. Allison's chest won't stop heaving, and she can't tell if she's furious or about to start sobbing. All she knows is that staring at Kate burns her to the core and she has to look away.

“I'd never betray Erica, even if I _had_ known about her being a werewolf.” Allison spits, “I'd rather she kill me than ever sell her out to any _hunter_.”

The word twists in her mouth, wrapped in barb wire and salt and Allison can see it cut wounds. Allison turns away furiously, drilling holes into the darkness on the side of her bed for what feels like hours until finally, the door to her room clicks shut and she's left alone. It's only then that Allison lets herself cry, for the Hale family, for Erica, for Boyd, for herself, and even for Kate, her aunt who was manipulated by her own father into becoming this weapon.

She cries and cries until her chest aches like someone's slammed a hammer into it, and when she's done all she feels is hollow and carved out, heart and soul ripped from her chest until she is nothing. Allison lays there for hours, thinking about Kate's words, and wondering how the aunt she loved is so well hidden under the monster that was in front of her.

When she turns around, the necklace is gone and she is alone.

 

 

16.

It's dark when Allison sees headlights against her window, making her squint to see the moon in the sky. It's become a habit of hers, to chart the position of the moon, to wonder how many werewolves are out there. It's as frightening as it is comforting, somehow.

The sight of her aunt is enough to make Allison sick. She looks beyond the lights to the car and sees her mother and Kate in the front seat, both wearing stony expressions. Kate says something, words quick and angry, and Allison watches as her mother stares straight ahead, eyes unseeing. Her aunt goes on, hands gesturing wildly in the small space between them. Allison watches her mother's hands curl and relax as Kate goes on before finally opening the door and slamming it closed. She stomps into the house, gait furious and quick.

Kate shouts something after her, but Allison doesn't hear it.

A knot of worry grows in Allison's gut. Kate's always ecstatic after her hunts, running on adrenalin and ready to celebrate. Allison ignores it and looks back to her book, The Art of War. Gerard took advantage of Victoria being gone and gave it to her earlier, along with a long and drawn out lecture about how much better she could have done during her trip.

Allison spent two hours after it unable to stop shaking. She's poured herself into the book, trying to see where she went wrong, what she could have done right, how she can keep people from dying. So far, she hasn't been able to find a concrete answer.

There's a gentle knock on her door and Allison turns her head slightly, catches her mother's familiar red hair in her doorway. Allison feigns a smile at her and scoots over on the edge of her bed, giving Victoria a place to sit. Her mother's movements are stilted and awkward, like simple steps are a new thing to her, but she smiles at Allison as she sits down.

Allison expects a report on the hunt or an inquiry about what she wants for dinner. Allison expects her mother to do anything but open her mouth and ask, “Allison, do you like hunting?”

She raises her eyebrows at her mother, jerking back at the question. An entire minute passes, her mother the picture of patience.

“I hate it,” Allison admits carefully, wondering if this is some strange trap.

Victoria nods, as if she expected the answer. No nets fall from the ceiling, and no armed men break in through her door, so Allison relaxes minutely, still slightly on edge. Her mother has never cared for her opinion on hunting before.

Her mother's hands are warm when the reach out for hers gently. They're not as calloused as her father's, but they're almost there, hands strong and skilled from years of wielding weapons.

“I never wanted you to become like me,” Victoria says abruptly, shocking Allison even more. For the first time in Allison's life, she sees tears form in her mother's eyes. They're gone immediately, as if only a trick of the light. “From the first moment I felt you move inside of me, I knew I couldn't let this life ruin you. I couldn't live with myself if I let you be turned into _this_. I don't know where it went wrong.”

Allison grips her mother's hands tight between her own, feeling like she's about to fall off a cliff. There's a rock in her throat and a stone in her stomach, and Allison doesn't know what's wrong but she feels like she's sinking.

“I was afraid,” her mother says, words forced out around a croak of a bitter laugh, “I can admit that now. You and Erica, you were so close, and it kept me up at night. I know,” she holds up her free hand to stave off Allison's defense, “I know she loved you, but it scared me. I was terrified, Allison. If it was any other werewolf, if you weren't properly prepared? I couldn't forgive myself if because of my fear of losing you, my _weakness_ , you lost your life.”

Victoria sighs and runs a thumb along Allison's hand, smile small and sad and Allison feels tears forming in her eyes although she can't understand why.

“Mom?” She asks, voice shaking, “What's going on?”

Victoria lifts her free hand and brushes Allison's hair back, catching it behind her ear. Her hand moves slowly, dragging across her jaw and cupping her face, looking at her carefully as if she's memorizing every detail.

“I lost my family when I was young,” she says, closing her eyes as if the memory physically pains her, “I was nine. The Argent's took me in and raised me, they loved me and cared for me and when I met your father, I created a new family. But, losing my parents, it taught me a lesson I was perhaps too young to have learned. Love?” Victoria opens her eyes again, stares deep into Allison's, “It ruins you.”

It hits her like a wrecking ball, forcing her to physically recoil at the words. Allison squints at her mother, trying to understand. She feels like she's putting together a puzzle without knowing what the image is.

“You're scaring me,” Allison admits slowly.

“I'm sorry,” Victoria goes on, voice small and cracked, “I'm sorry for being so cold with you the past few months. I felt like I failed you, in a way. I couldn't afford to be gentle, Allison. The world is harsh, and you need to be even harsher to survive in it. You can't afford _weakness_ to survive, but,” she takes a deep, shaky breath, tries to smile around the worlds, “You were mine.”

Victoria pulls her in for a hug, and Allison lets her, relaxes into the embrace and wraps her arms around her mother tight. Everything feels off kilter, and Allison doesn't know how to fix it when she doesn't even know what's wrong. She tries to ignore it, tries to find comfort in her mother's rare touch, if only for a little while.

There's a growing wet spot on Allison's arm, the one wrapped tight around her mother's shoulder. It can't be tears; Victoria's face is nowhere near the area and Allison's eyes are dry. She pulls her arm back to get a better look, and is stunned with shock at the dark stain stretched across her purple sweater. She looks down and sees it, a thick patch of red bleeding slowly into the shoulder of her mother's cream top.

Allison pulls back quickly, torn between demanding answers and rushing to get the first aid kit stowed away in her closet. She does neither, finds that she can't even move. It's like her limbs have been severed from her body. Her eyes are wide, and voice is but a mouse's whisper as she breathes out, “Mom?”

“There was an accident,” Victoria says lightly, like one would use to keep a child from screaming after an injury, “I went out with your aunt to patrol some woods down in Sacramento. There were some questionable sightings and Gerard thought we should look into it.”

“Y-you're hurt. We need- we need to clean it.” Allison's voice is frantic. Her head is running a mile a minute, heart pounding as Victoria's words sink in. Her brain hums with denial at each beat of her heart. It's impossible. It couldn't have happened. Kate delights in the thrill of the hunt. Victoria is a skilled hunter. Allison's seen both of them in action; there's no way it could be true.

Victoria tries to smile at her, “There's no cleaning this, Allison.”

Allison very suddenly remembers the night when Erica was killed, when her mother took her into her arms and gave her no compassion except for stitches to her wound. She wonders if her mother thought this then, too. If, even as she cleaned the cut, she knew that her daughter lost something more than a girlfriend that night. Perhaps that was why her mother tried so hard to train her.

Allison's heart feels as if it's been ripped in two. She knows the code, knows the old laws, and her own mother's pride. She knows that even if her aunt and grandfather deigned that Victoria could live with the filth in her blood that she would still choose to take her own life than follow the pull of the moon.

“Why are you still here?” Allison demands sharply, ignoring the surprise on her mother's face, “You need to run! Gerard- He- He'll-”

“It's too late, Allison,” Victoria tells her, “Kate knows, as does Gerard and your father. I'm a hunter, and I've never been ashamed of that.”

She rest a hand on Allison's shoulder, tries to rub her back in a placating gesture, but Allison feels like she's been gutted. She opens her mouth to argue, half baked plans rushing up her throat, but Victoria cuts her off.

“I live by the code, and I'll die by the code. I just wanted the chance to say goodbye to you, and, to tell you that I love you. I've always loved you, even when it might not have seemed like it,” Victoria's hand tenses at her shoulder, as if knowing that Allison feels as if she's about to faint. “Promise me you won't let them ruin who you are. Promise me you'll stay safe,” Victoria closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, any warmth in her gaze is gone. She's cold as steel, sharp as a knife and almost feral, “If because of this family you are killed, I will find them, every last one of them, and I will come back from the grave just to kill them myself.”

Her mother's eyes grow yellow at that but Allison doesn't jerk away from them, even as she knows these eyes will haunt her at night. She moves closer and tries to hold tight to her mom, because it's that word, _grave_ , that makes it suddenly all real. It has the tears spilling down her face, her heart stopping and stomach dropping, and Allison realizes that this is the last time she will _ever_ speak to her mom. A sob breaks from her and Allison pleads, “Just run, please! Don't go, don't- You can control it! I know you can, you can-”

Victoria pulls her back to her, and Allison clutches at her, sobbing like a child but she can't stop. Her chest shakes and her ribs shudder and Allison can't even breathe, can't think beyond the fact that her mother is going to die tonight.

“I have to,” Victoria whispers into her hair, and Allison cries harder at it, wraps her arms around her tighter like she can force her to stay just by clinging. Victoria looks over at the clock on Allison's desk, “You need to leave. _Now_. I have to do this, Allison. I won't risk hurting you.”

“I _need_ you,” Allison chokes out.

Her mother slips behind her mask and loosens her grip, letting go of Allison completely. There's a loud bang and heavy footfalls before unfamiliar arms wrap tightly around Allison's torso. She yells, shoves her elbow back to hit her attacker's face but they easily dodge it, forcing her up and away from her bed. She grapples for the spare knife she keeps strapped to her thigh, but the man holds her wrist tight in one hand. Another man rounds her and grabs her kicking legs, holding her ankles tight between meaty hands.

Allison struggles in their grip, thrashes wildly and kicks, punches, claws, but her captors don't even flinch at any of her hits. She screams again, loud and sorrow filled. The word “No!” is twisted and gnarled as it's forced from her mouth. All she can see is her mother, her hand held over her mouth and eyes clenched shut, before the door to her room is slammed closed, and her mother is lost to her forever.

  


  


17.

The men have shoved her in a guest room, one of the smaller ones on the first floor, and it has Allison pacing the walls. She jiggles the doorknob, shakes the door and punches windows, but they're locked and reinforced, and all it does is leave her frustrated with aching hands.

She's frantic. Her hands are shaking and she feels cold all over, like someone dipped her in an ice bath. She tries to breathe, to calm down, but all she can think about is her mother, not even fifteen feet away, committing suicide because of a _werewolf bite_.

Allison leans her head against a wall, lets her skull thump against it, as she wonders how much more this family will take from her. She slides to the ground and hiccups out a sob, body flayed open and raw. She's so tired of this, the constant pain that hovers over her like a guillotine. The Argent's should have just chopped her head off by now. This slow torture, this pain of living, it's worse than death.

The door opens twenty minutes later, and Allison wonders if her mother is dead yet, if she passed from this life to the next while Allison couldn't do anything. Allison couldn't save her mother, or Erica, or even herself.

What was it her mother had said? Love ruins you? Allison almost wishes she never loved anyone. Maybe then she wouldn't feel as weak as she does, wants to rip out her heart so nothing can hurt her again.

Thick boots click into Allison's view and she begrudgingly follows them, surprised when she's greeted by the sight of Kate's face. After their talk only hours ago, after learning what Kate did, what Kate wants her to be, her aunt is the last person Allison wants to see. Especially now. Especially after everything.

“Hey,” she says with a weak smile, “Things have been pretty hectic lately, huh?”

Allison doesn't say anything. She looks away and closes her eyes, tries to block out Kate's entire existence. Hectic isn't good enough to describe what's going on. Hell would be far more fitting.

Does Kate love anything? Allison has to wonder. She searches through her memories, trying to find anything to prove it to herself but only seeing her smile. Allison doesn't see how they can coincide so well in her mind, the hunter and her aunt, how someone with so much cruelty in them can smile at her so sweetly.

“Your dad was going to come, but Gerard thought it'd be better if he was there to help Victoria,” she says, and her voice is only the barest hint of sympathetic.

Allison clenches her eyes at that, tugs her knees tighter to her and tries to get the image away from her. She remembers Gerard telling her about Chris breaking his own wrist, and wonders just how much her father has sacrificed to please Gerard. How many parts of Chris are broken and torn just for his father's pleasure?

“I know it's rough sweetie, but your mom is doing the right thing,” Kate tries again, and her voice is so sincere that it rubs against Allison's nerves like a cheese grater.

“How is this right?” Allison asks, her voice hollow. “How is losing my mom over some _code_ the right thing?”

Kate hums thoughtfully at that. It's quiet for a second, and Allison allows herself to believe that Kate's finally listened to her and let her be. When she opens her eyes, she sees Kate crouched down in front of her, eyes wide, “You know, I lost my mom when I was young too. It changed me, Allison. I was just a little girl, but overnight I became a warrior. I was a leader. You can be that too, Allison.”

Allison turns swiftly to glare at Kate, eyes narrowed and hard as she spits out, “Can you stop comparing me to you? For five seconds? Can I just _grieve_ without you people trying to turn it into a lesson?”

Kate scoffs, as if Allison is being ridiculous, as if her tears are that of a child throwing a tantrum, “I'm trying to help, Allison. You need to move past this as soon as possible. You can't afford to be weak, not now.”

Kate reaches out to touch her but Allison flinches back at it, throws herself against the wall and stares at her incredulously. Her aunt shrugs at her reaction and drops her hand with a sigh.

“You told me you could handle this,” she says, “You want to be strong, right? This will make you strong. This pain? You have to _harness_ it. I found the werewolf who killed my mother and I sliced him in half. _That_ is what made me strong,” Kate snorts, “Not crying in a bedroom.”

It trickles into her slowly, like molasses is replacing her blood, clogging her heart. Allison stares at Kate with a growing horror in her eyes. She latches onto the wall and forces herself to stand, needing to get away from Kate. It can't be true though, could it? Her aunt may be ruthless, but there's a _code_ , one that her mother is dying over.

“What happened to my mom- it was an accident. Right, Kate?” Allison's voice is a broken plea, “Tell me it was an accident.”

 _Tell me you didn't kill my mom just to make me become you_ , Allison begs silently.

Kate stands, her expression unchanging, and her voice drops, low and persuasive, “I can help you. We can get revenge together, Allison. I can train you. _Really_ train you. Together, we'll be unstoppable.”

Allison shakes her head slowly, terror racing up her spine and freezing in her veins. Her first instinct is denial, because it can't be, but months of Kate's lessons, of learning what it takes to be a hunter, what kind of cold blooded killers these people can grow to be, Allison can't deny it for long.

For months all she's heard about is the powerful family of hunters she belongs to. The blood that flows in her veins can be traced back more than 400 years. Argent is supposed to mean silver, the silver of a bullet that always saves the day in those old, horrid tales about werewolves, it's protection in its purest form, but her family has taken that meaning and twisted it until it's unrecognizable.

“She was holding you back from your potential. She made you weak,” Kate says easily, like that's _good enough_. Like that makes it okay.

It's a cycle. A sick, twisted cycle that begins with a child and ends in pain. Allison realizes that the death will never stop. There will always be an Argent with a gun in their hand and a tragic back story in their pocket. Allison's know this. It's been spelled out for her carefully over the past few months. It's only now that she's realizing just how broken her family is. So broken that it feels the need to break itself even more, if only to keep people loyal to a cause that was forgotten generations ago.

They preach of life like it's a weakness, emotions only acting as hooks holding you back. They don't want love, they want loyalty. They want machines willing and able to die at the drop of a dime. They don't want to protect anyone. They want death and destruction. They want genocide.

It all brings her back to her mother, her words about love making people weak, about Allison's own desire to carve out her own heart, and Allison wishes she could go back to twenty minutes ago. She wishes she could deny it, wishes she had fought harder for her mother and tell her that love? It doesn't make people weak.

It makes them _strong_. And that's, ultimately, why the Argent's try so hard to make their people emotionless. It's easier to mold someone who has nothing into something.

Love gave Victoria the strength to protect her daughter. It gave Erica the will to look past Allison's last name. It gave Allison the strength to save Boyd. Love makes allowances. Love changes you. Love empowers you.

It fills Allison with fury, blood pumping loud in her ears and heart thumping to the beat of it. Love makes Allison's hand fly to her thigh and pull her dagger out of its sheath. She twirls it in her hand, familiar and easy and she remembers her mother, who forced her to train with it until she was good enough.

It's her mother, her silent strength and steely resolve, that Allison thinks of as she flies forward, catching Kate off guard and shoving it as deep as she can into her aunt's heart. It slides in easily, flesh cleaving like warm butter between her ribs. She twists the knife, hears the sick squelching of muscle and skin and organ bending around her blade.

Kate's blue eyes are wide in shock, body falling to the ground and Allison moves with it, leans over her aunt as blood leaks out of her mouth.

“I'm not you!” Allison screams at her aunt's face, watching as the expression freezes, as her eyes become lifeless and empty. She pulls the knife out, the red soaking its silver edges. Allison wipes it on Kate's blouse, actions quick and furious and the words are as ugly and broken as her as she yells, “I'd rather _die_ than be you!”

Her chest is heaving and her hands are shaking. She's left empty and bare and Allison falls back and lands on her butt, legs sprawled out in front of her and hands stained with rivets of blood. She looks at them as it sinks in slowly, what's just happened. What she's done.

Looks at the monster she's turned into to stop this cycle of pain and death.

Allison sits there and realizes that only the walls are here to bare witness to her promise. She looks back down and tears blur her vision as she sees Kate, her aunt, the person who she loved like a sister, with her heart silent and face pale. Allison hates herself for the sob that rips from her chest and wishes, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, that things could have been different.

  


  


18.

The door is unlocked when Allison gathers the strength to try it.

Her hand is wrapped around the hilt of her dagger with a vice like grip. Allison's sure it's the only thing that's keeping her from shaking. She closes the door carefully behind her and creeps through the halls of her home, feeling like a stranger.

She listens closely, trying to hear a voice or footsteps. She hears neither, and it comforts her as well as scares her. If someone happens across her, what will she do? Is she prepared to kill again? Allison feels bile at the back of her throat at the thought of Kate's lifeless eyes and shakes her head, clearing the image from her mind.

Allison doesn't know what she's doing or where she's going, but she can't stay here. Not now. Not with her dead aunt laying on the floor only ten feet from her. Maybe her and Victoria can run away together, two rogue Argents. They can make a life for themselves, one without all of this blood and pain. Together, they can move on. They can be a family again. She lets the thought comfort her and feels it replace the cold tremor in her spine.

Allison peers around a corner and freezes. Gerard is sitting in her father's recliner with a book open on his lap, glasses on his face and an intense look in his eyes. How can he sit here so calm and peaceful? Is he so unaffected by the chaos of Allison's life? She thinks back to what Kate alluded to, to what she's sure he's done to Allison and even Kate herself for his own enjoyment, and feels her hand tighten around her dagger.

Just one cut; one line across his throat and he'll be done for. What's more blood on her hands if it means ridding the world of this vile man? What's one more death on her conscious if it means her mother is avenged? The idea sings in her bloodstream, but Allison's feet are cemented to the floor and she feels like she can't breathe.

Allison loosens her grip on her knife, hating herself for not being able to do it. Maybe before Kate, before she knew what it felt like to kill someone she knows, before she knew what it was like to kill and not have it be out of self defense. If only Gerard had come into the room instead of Kate. If only Gerard had smiled at her face while twisting the knife in her back.

Would it feel different? She has to wonder. Would she feel detached as she slit his throat? Or would it be this unbearable, throbbing ache like it is with her aunt?

Allison waits for him to flip the page again before she sneaks across the hallway to the stairs. If she stays in that crossroads any longer, she'll tempt herself too much and Allison's already lost more of herself to this man than she would like.

The stairs don't creak as Allison takes them two at a time, and she doesn't get breathless thanks to Kate's rigorous training routine. There's no one in the hallway upstairs either, and Allison's stomach swoops in relief at her luck.

They'll have to pack light, she thinks, unwilling to push her luck any further. Maybe they'll only have time to grab a quick change of clothes. Would they steal a car or make for the bus? Allison's not sure yet. She's never planned to run away, not really, anyway. Of course she's considered it, but it never got farther than an intense longing or a day dream. Victoria will know what to do, Allison assures herself. Her mom will take care of everything. All Allison will have to do is convince her to live.

The door to her bedroom is cracked open an inch and Allison pushes it the rest of the way, smile falling from her face at the sight in front of her.

It's like being gutted with a plastic spoon. Every part of her body screams as if it's on fire, and she's tugged in four directions like a medieval torture device. She clenches her eyes tight against the pain, hoping, praying, that she's imagining what's in front of her. That this just a hallucination that's been brought on by too much trauma.

A knife is not in her mother's chest. Her father's hands aren't wrapped around the hilt.

Allison can't breathe.

She hears a sob and isn't sure if it's coming from her or Chris, but another follows, and then another, and Allison feels as if she's choking on the ocean. She feels a scream building in her chest, and she wants to cry out. They were going to _run_. They were going to be _happy_.

Chris turns to face her and Allison doesn't even see the tear tracks on his face, too focused on the way her mother's body slumps lifelessly in his arms.

“Allison,” he says, voice rough, but she can't hear him, a violent roar in her ears drowning out everything.

He moves to get up and Victoria's body falls more, flounders in a heap and Allison sobs out at the sight, bites on her tongue. Her hands are shaking violently as she brings them up to cover her mouth, and only then does she realize she's hyperventilating.

Her mother is _dead_ and her father _killed her._

Chris tries to walk toward her, movements slow and stilted like he's approaching a cornered animal. Allison's torn between collapsing into him and running as far as she can. She's scared, so scared and afraid and she can't breathe, but it hasn't sunken in yet. It's not real, it didn't happen, _she's making it up-_

Chris holds his hands up placatingly, and Allison catches sight of the crimson red against his pale hands.

She freezes at them, noting slowly that that blood belongs to her mother.

Allison takes a step back, and then another, head shaking slowly, “No,” she breathes out in a strangled whisper, “Daddy, no-”

His face cracks and crumbles like a fallen city under her words. His hands twist around and he sees it too, and Allison watches as his chest heaves. He looks between her and his hands, once, twice, chest heaving and a noise like that of a wounded animal escaping his throat. Allison sees tears in his eyes but she can't believe them, can't afford to believe them.

He takes another step toward her and Allison feels it, that instinct her aunt was talking about just the other day, that fight or flight pounding deep in her muscles. Allison spares a glance at her mother's body lying haphazardly across her bed and sobs again. She wants to run over to her, wrap her in her arms and demand like a child that she come back. Allison _needs_ her and she's _dead_ and her father _killed_ her _._

She distantly remembers what her mother said to her before Allison was forced to leave the room, _“Promise me you won't let them ruin who you are,”_ she begged, _“Promise me you'll stay safe.”_

Allison doesn't even look at her father as she turns and runs. Chris calls out to her, voice broken and raw, but that just pushes her feet harder against the hallway, determined to put as much distance between that room and her. She doesn't think twice when the window appears in front of her. She ducks her head on instinct, arms moving to cover and protect her from years of gymnastics.

She doesn't even feel the glass as it shatters around her, shimmering like diamonds in the moonlight. She only hears the sound like thousands of china cups breaking at once. The roof gives way to air and Allison rolls with it, curls into a ball and flies for what feels like hours before the Earth crashes into her.

Allison pushes herself up and takes off, sprinting across the dewy lawn. Her sneakers slick and slide amongst the wet ground but she keeps going, even as a long cry of her name passes through the wind.

Allison runs. She runs and runs until it's like acid is pumping in her veins. She runs until she can finally breathe again. She runs until she forgets her name and the terror it represents, and then she runs more. She doesn't stop until she can get the sight of her mother's blood out of her mind, tears still shedding even as they feel like ice against her cheeks.

She runs and she doesn't ever look back.


End file.
